UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


SOME  IMPRESSIONS  OF 
MY  ELDERS 


4  $  €  3      4 


BY  THE  SAME  A  UTHOR 

NOVELS 

MRS.  MARTINIS  MAN 
ALICE  AND  A  FAMILY 
CHANGING  WINDS 
THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

SHORT  STORIES 

EIGHT  O'CLOCK  AND  OTHER 
STUDIES 

PLAYS 

THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

MIXED  MARRIAGE 

JANE  CLEGG 

JOHN  FERGUSON 

THE  SHIP 

MARY,  MARY,  QUITE  CONTRARY 

POLITICAL  STUDY 

SIR  EDWARD   CARSON  AND   THE 
ULSTER  MOVEMENT 


SOME  IMPRESSIONS 
OF  MY  ELDERS 


BY 

ST.  JOHN  G.  ERVINE 


■NVm  fork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1922 
All  Rights  Reserved 

r  r.  ■:  o 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AilEEICA 


Copyright,  1920  and  1921, 
By  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW  CORPORATION 

COPTEIGHT,    1922, 

By  ST.  JOHN  G.  ERVINE 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1922 


»   t   •  «      »  i       .     *  • 


... 
II        ...» 


......     >    .  . 

;    ; 


VAIL.BALLOU    COMPANY 

amSHAMTOH  ANO  NEW  TOMK 


TO 
ELIZABETH  CUTTING 

who  would  not  give  me  any  peace  until  I 
had  overcome  my  idle  habits  and  written 
all  these  impressions  of  my  elders  for  the 
North  American  Review. 


i  CONTENTS 

[      THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS    ....      3 

A.  E.  (GEORGE  WILLIAM  RUSSELL)    ...     25 

x 

J    ARNOLD  BENNETT  61 

v. 

J     G.  K.  CHESTERTON 90 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 113 

.     GEORGE  MOORE 161 

1 

BERNARD  SHAW 189 

H.  G.  WELLS 240 

W.  B.  YEATS 264 

3 

a 


SOME  IMPRESSIONS  OF  MY  ELDERS 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS 
READERS 


The  matter  which  appears  in  the  following  pages 
was  orginally  contributed,  in  the  shape  of  a  series 
of  articles  under  the  general  title  of  "Some  Im- 
pressions of  My  Elders,"  to  the  North  American 
Review  at  intervals  during  the  years  1920  and 
1921.  The  order  in  which  the  articles  appear 
in  this  book  is  different  from  the  order  in  which 
they  appeared  in  the  Review:  this  order  is  alpha- 
betical whereas  that  was  capricious.  Some  ex- 
cisions and  some  additions  have  been  made  to  them 
and  I  hope  that  I  have  evaded  the  danger  which 
besets  all  those  who  reprint  their  journalism  in 
book  form,  the  danger  of  repetitions.  Why  I  re- 
print them  at  all  is  a  point  on  which  I  am  not  able 
to  offer  conclusive  explanations.  I  have  reached 
that  period  of  my  life  when  my  wish  is  rather 
not  to  write  a  book  than  to  write  one,  and  I  have 
lost  all  the  cheery  conceit  which  caused  me  in 

[3] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

my  youth  to  feel  that  anything  I  wrote  ought  to 
be  published  in  a  handsome  volume.  Indeed, 
when  I  think  of  the  great  quantity  of  books  there 
already  are  in  this  world,  it  seems  to  me  a  sign  of 
hopeless  irresponsibility  to  add  to  their  number. 
There  are  so  many  books  that  ought  to  be  read,  but 
never  can  be  read  because  there  is  not  enough  time 
for  any  of  us  to  do  so,  that  no  author  can  plead 
justification  for  printing  a  book  which  does  not 
come  within  the  catalogue  of  those  that  ought  to 
be  read  unless  he  needs  the  money  which,  pre- 
sumably, he  will  get  for  it.  I  cannot  urge  even 
that  plea,  for  I  have  few  needs  and  they  are  easily 
satisfied.  I  have  never  been  afflicted  with  the 
mania  for  owning  things,  as  Walt  Whitman  calls 
it,  and  therefore  have  no  wish  to  accumulate  either 
goods  or  money.  Were  it  not  for  the  insistence  of 
some  of  my  friends,  I  do  not  suppose  I  should 
issue  this  book  to  the  public  at  all.  We  are  too 
prone,  we  scribblers,  to  put  our  casual  writings 
between  the  covers  of  a  book,  when  regard  for 
our  craft  would  compel  us  to  reserve  that  dignity 
for  our  greatest  efforts;  and  I  have  feared  for 
several  years  now  to  be  one  of  these  offenders. 

[4] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

And  yet,  one  likes  to  have  an  array  of  books  on  a 
shelf  and  be  able  to  say,  "I  wrote  those."  The  pro- 
fession of  writing  gives  degree  and  reputation  to  a 
man  which  is  often  greater  than  his  due,  and  people 
of  ability  will  listen  respectfully  to  the  opinions  of 
a  lesser  person  than  themselves  merely  be- 
cause he  (or  even  she)  has  printed  a  book.  Many 
clever  men  and  women  actually  paid  good  Ameri- 
can money  to  hear  me  talk  on  odds  and  ends  of 
subjects,  although  they  probably  had  views  on 
them  that  were  at  least  as  sound  as  mine  and  no 
doubt  a  great  deal  sounder.  I  am  afraid  of  this 
tribute  to  the  author.  It  may  make  us,  a  much 
assorted  crowd,  esteem  ourselves  more  highly  than 
we  are  naturally  prone  to  do.  The  mere  fact  that 
a  man  has  contracted  a  profitable  habit  of  putting 
words  together  does  not  entitle  him  to  more  of  the 
world's  respect  that  is  due  to  one  who  has  con- 
tracted the  habit  of  putting  bits  of  metal  together 
and  calling  the  result  a  motor-car.  I  do  not  know 
why  a  man  who  writes  books  should  regard  him- 
self as  a  better  man  than  one  who  makes  butter. 
Far  less  do  I  know  why  the  man  who  makes  butter 
should  consent  to  believe  that  he  is  less  worthy  than 
the  man  who  makes  books.     But  undoubtedly  some 

[5] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO    HIS   READERS 

such  superstition  fills  the  minds  of  most  of  us. 
When  a  man  or  woman  of  ordinary  appearance 
and  uninteresting  speech  comes  into  our  presence, 
we  say  "How  do  you  do!"  and  turn  away;  but  when 
we  are  informed  that  this  same  person  has  written 
a  novel,  immediately  we  become  interested  and 
turn  again  to  him  or  her  in  the  expectation  that 
something  profoundly  illuminating  will  be  said  to 
us.  Experience  does  not  cure  us  of  that  delusive 
hope.  We  do  not  prick  up  our  ears  when  a  man 
who  owns  the  largest  motor-car  factory  in  the  world 
comes  into  our  presence,  and  we  yawn  in  the  face  of 
a  railway  director  Yet  either  of  these  may  be 
far  more  entertaining  company  than  any  author. 
It  is  true  that  the  author  is  presumably  more  im- 
aginative than  the  owner  of  the  factory  or  the  pres- 
ident of  the  railroad,  and  perhaps  the  instinctive 
tribute  paid  by  mankind  to  the  author,  even  when 
mankind  omits  to  buy  his  books,  is  a  recognition 
of  the  value  of  imagination  to  human  life.  As 
such  I  gladly  accept  it.  Nevertheless,  I  could 
wish  for  more  discrimination  in  these  tributes.  On 
the  whole,  I  would  prefer  to  see  our  authors 
neglected  than  over-estimated.  No  one  on  earth 
and  probably  no  one  in  heaven  can  prevent  an 

[6] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS  READERS 

author  from  making  books  while  he  has  breath  in 
his  body  and  energy  in  his  brain  and  fingers. 
Therefore,  neglect  will  not  greatly  harm  him. 
But  too  much  praise,  too  much  consideration  of 
his  views,  above  all,  too  much  profit  from  his 
work,  will  make  a  sad  mess  of  an  excellent  writer. 
I  tell  myself  sometimes  that  no  author  should  be 
praised  until  he  is  dead,  though  he  might 
occasionally  be  dispraised  during  his  lifetime. 
We  should  thus  save  our  authors,  though  there  is 
no  certainty  in  this,  from  excess  of  vanity.  Let 
Shakespeare's  reputation  grow  to  legendary  pro- 
portions when  he  is  safely  within  his  grave,  but 
do  not,  if  you  desire  the  best  that  is  in  him,  let 
him  be  often  or  much  praised  while  he  is  alive. 
We  have  come  to  a  period  of  time  when  authors 
feel  that  they  must  write  so  many  books  each 
year.  But  I  would  have  an  author  publish  a  book 
only  when  the  compulsion  to  publish  it  becomes 
greater  than  he  can  resist.  Books  would  not  neces- 
sarily be  better,  but  they  would  certainly  be  fewer, 
and  they  might  be  better. 


[7] 


THE  AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 
II 

I  have  written  thus  far,  partly  to  resolve  my  own 
doubts  (which,  however,  are  not  resolved)  but 
chiefly  to  excuse  myself  to  those  who  may  buy  this 
book.  I  beg  of  them  to  believe  that  I  have  not 
reprinted  these  fugitive  pieces  without  deliber- 
ation on  their  value.  My  friends  tell  me  that 
any  impressions  of  men  of  quality  and  genius 
have  value,  and  undoubtedly  Boswell's  biography 
of  Dr.  Johnson  confirms  many  mediocrities  in  their 
intention  to  accept  a  man's  hospitality  for  the 
purpose  of  earning  money  by  describing  his  per- 
sonal habits  in  a  public  journal.  We  would  be 
very  grateful  for  an  account  of  Shakespeare  no 
better  than  any  one  of  the  chapters  in  this  book 
If  an  Elizabethan  had  had  a  mind  like  Boswell's 
and  had  noted  down  all  that  he  ever  heard 
Shakespeare  say,  had  pressed  him  with  questions 
on  his  work,  had  noted  his  personal  appearance, 
his  habits  of  dress,  his  ways  of  eating,  his 
effect  on  women,  his  likes  and  dislikes,  the  thou- 
sand and  one  small  things  which,  when  summed 
up,  make  a  man  out  of  a  myth,  how  happy  we 
should  all  be,  how  many  thousand  commentators 

[8] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO    HIS   READERS 

and  emendators  and  wrathful  Baconians  and  cy- 
pher maniacs  would  be  put  out  of  employment! 
One  could  cry  with  vexation  at  the  thought  that 
there  was  no  one  with  sufficient  intelligence  to  keep 
a  diary  during  those  last  few  mysterious  years 
in  Stratford-on-Avon  when  Shakespeare,  though 
still  a  young  man  as  ages  go,  ceased  to  work  at  his 
trade  and  went  in  silence  to  his  grave.  Such  are 
the  considerations  which  have  affected  me  in  my 
decision  to  reprint  these  chapters,  though  they 
may  add  very  little  to  any  one's  knowledge  of  the 
men  who  are  described  in  them.  It  is,  perhaps, 
an  additional  factor  in  the  decision  that  they 
record  impressions  made  on  the  mind  of  a  young 
man  by  his  elders  and  betters  and  expressed  at 
a  time  when  he  was  ceasing  to  be  young.  The 
generation  to  which  I  belong  was  much  impressed 
by  the  men  whose  work  and  beliefs  are  sketched 
in  this  book.  All  young  men,  whatever  their  class 
or  culture,  have  heroes.  The  world,  indeed,  will 
end  when  young  men  cease  to  have  heroes. 
Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Wells,  Mr.  Chesterton  and  Mr. 
Belloc,  Mr.  Yeats  and  Mr.  Moore,  Mr.  Bennett  and 
Mr.  Galsworthy  and,  rather  more  remotely,  "A. 
E."  were  heroes  worthy  of  emulation  by  me  and 

[9] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO    HIS   READERS 

the  likes  of  me.  George  Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy 
were  too  far  up  the  slopes  of  Olympus  for  us  to 
hope  ever  to  touch  the  hem  of  their  garments,  but 
we  were  alive  in  the  same  world  with  them  and 
sometimes  spoke  with  people  who  knew  them. 
Once,  even,  on  a  hot  Sunday  morning  I  walked 
for  miles  in  Surrey,  stiff  with  determination  to 
see  Meredith  and  to  speak  with  him,  even  if  I 
should  have  to  skulk  about  his  house  the  entire 
day  and  run  the  risk  of  being  arrested  for  suspi- 
cious loitering;  but  my  heart  failed  me  when,  tired 
and  thirsty,  I  came*  into  his  neighbourhood.  Who 
was  I,  I  derrianded  of  myself,  that  I  should  thrust 
my  unimportant  person  on  the  notice  of  a  genius? 
And  when  I  had  made  that  demand  of  myself,  I 
realised  that  I  could  do  no  other  than  go  away  and 
leave  the- old  man  in  peace.  And  so  I  went,  though 
now  I  regret  that  I  did,  for  a  little  while  after  I 
made  my  expedition  to  Box  Hill,  Meredith  died 
and  I  had  lost  for  ever  my  hope  of  seeing  him. 
Time  has  been  kinder  to  me  over  Mr.  Hardy  whose 
friendship  I  have  the  happiness  to  enjoy. 

I  have  described  these  men  as  our  heroes,  but  of 
course  the  degree  of  respect  we  gave  to  them  varied. 
The  feeling  we  had  for  Mr.  Galsworthy,  for  ex- 

[10] 


THE  AUTHOR  TO   HIS  READERS 

ample,  was  diminished  by  the  fact  that  we  were 
afraid  he  would  turn  aside  and  shed  a  few  unac- 
countable tears.  His  work,  particularly  "The  Man 
of  Property,"  "The  Country  House"  and  "The  Sil- 
ver Box,"  had  the  great  appeal  which  all  passion- 
ately sincere  work  has,  but  it  left  some  of  us  in  a 
state  of  chilled  speculation.  We  were  afraid  of 
the  effect  Mr.  Galsworthy  had  on  our  emotions  and 
we  resisted  him  more,  perhaps,  than  we  ought  to 
have  done  because  we  suspected  him  of  sentimen- 
tality and  were  afraid  he  might  let  our  minds 
down  by  pressing  too  hardly  on  our  hearts.  His 
work  excited  a  remote  pity  in  us,  but  it  did  not 
rouse  us  to  wrath  or  warm  our  affections.  His 
characters  were  the  creatures  of  an  aloof,  impas- 
sive and  immovable  Destiny;  and  it  is  difficult  to 
feel  much  interest  in  automatons.  If  a  man  is 
wronged  by  another  man,  I  may  be  stirred  to  his 
defence,  but  if  he  is  thwarted  or  crushed  by  some 
passionless  Force  which  cannot  be  controlled  or 
persuaded  or  defeated,  I  am  unlikely  to  do  more 
than  murmur  "Poor  fellow!"  and  pass  on  my  way. 
Spineless  men,  impotently  submitting  to  Circum- 
stances, do  not  stir  the  blood,  and  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
characters,  though  they  might  excite  our  pity,  killed 

[ii] 


THE  AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

our  hope.  Mr.  Galsworthy  seemed  to  us  to  say, 
"Vain  youths,  it  is  idle  to  make  any  effort!  Things 
happen  and  they  cannot  be  helped.  You  are 
doomed  from  the  moment  of  your  birth  to  die 
frustrated!  .  .  ."  He  is  easily  made  indignant  by 
suffering,  but  we  could  not  imagine  him  sounding 
a  call  to  fight.  We  could  think  of  him  only  in  the 
act  of  surrender.  We  asked  for  a  challenge;  he 
counselled  submission.  He  was  a  Tolstoyan,  not 
of  his  Free  Will,  for  he  had  no  Free  Will,  but 
because  he  could  not  help  himself.  He  turned  the 
other  cheek  because  he  would  not  clench  his  fist. 
Mr.  Hardy  did  not  fill  our  mouths  with  dust  as 
Mr.  Galsworthy  did,  for  his  people,  though  they, 
too,  were  creatures  of  Destiny,  were  gallant  crea- 
tures and  went  to  their  end  with  a  noble  gesture. 
He  left  us  with  the  sensation  that  although  we 
were  obliged  to  submit  to  a  doom  determined  for 
us  by  a  Power  that  understood  neither  Itself  nor 
us,  yet  we  could  put  ribbons  in  our  hats.  We 
could  die  like  men  and  not  like  rats.  When  Mr. 
Hardy  celebrated  his  eighty-first  birthday,  his 
younger  comrades  in  the  craft  of  letters  presented 
an  address  to  him  from  which  I  quote  the  follow- 
ing passages: 

[12] 


THE  AUTHOR   TO   HIS  READERS 

"In  your  novels  and  poems  you  have  given  us  a 
tragic  vision  of  life  which  is  informed  by  your  knowl- 
edge of  character  and  relieved  by  the  charity  of  your 
humour  and  sweetened  by  your  sympathy  with  human 
suffering  and  endurance.  We  have  learned  from  you 
that  the  proud  heart  can  subdue  the  hardest  fate,  even 
in  submitting  to  it.  When  Mr.  Justice  Shallow  sought 
to  instruct  Sir  John  FalstafF  in  the  choice  of  soldiers, 
the  knight  said:  'Care  I  for  the  limbs,  the  thewes,  the 
stature,  bulk  and  big  assemblance  of  a  man?  Give  me 
the  spirit,  Master  Shallow.'  So  would  you  have 
answered  him,  for  in  all  that  you  have  written  you  have 
shown  the  spirit  of  man,  nourished  by  tradition  and  sus- 
tained by  pride,  persisting  through  defeat.  You  have 
inspired  us  both  by  your  work  and  by  the  manner  in 
which  it  was  done.  The  craftsman  in  you  calls  for  our 
admiration  as  surely  as  the  artist,  and  few  writers  have 
observed  so  closely  as  you  have  the  Host's  instruction 
in  the  Canterbury  Tales: 

Your  termes,  your  colours  and  your  figures, 

Keep  them  in  store,  till  so  be  ye  indite 

High  style,  as  when  that  men  to  kinges  write. 

From  your  first  book  to  your  last,  you  have  written 
in  the  'high  style,  as  when  that  men  to  kinges  write,' 
and   you   have   crowned   a   great   prose  with   a  noble 

poetry." 

Those  extracts  express,  I  think,  some  of  the 
quiet  quality  of  courage  discoverable  in  the  de- 

[13] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS  READERS 

terminism  of  Mr.  Hardy,  but  absent  from  the  de- 
terminism of  Mr.  Galsworthy. 

Ill 

Our  attitude  towards  Mr.  Shaw,  Mr.  Wells,  Mr. 
Chesterton  and  Mr.  Belloc  was  very  different  from 
our  attitude  towards  Mr.  Galsworthy.  These  chal- 
lenging, fighting,  protesting  men  were  concerned 
less  with  pity  for  the  victims  of  life  than  with 
anger  against  or  opposition  to  the  oppressors  of 
life.  They  did  not  wring  their  hands;  they  put 
up  their  fists.  The  Early  Twentieth  Century  Youth 
listened  respectfully  to  Mr.  Galsworthy,  but  he 
went  out  to  fight  with  Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Wells 
and  Mr.  Chesterton  and  Mr.  Belloc.  These  four 
men  did  not  move  him  in  equal  measure.  Mr. 
Wells  stimulated  him  with  the  quick  succession  of 
his  ideas,  but  disconcerted  him  also  with  the  rapid- 
ity with  which  he  shed  one  idea  for  another. 
While  we  were  willing  to  challenge  everything  and 
make  it  justify  its  existence,  we  were  eager  also  to 
find  firm  ground  for  our  feet.  We  felt  that  Mr. 
Wells  ought  to  make  up  his  mind  a  little  more  care- 
fully before  he  took  the  public  into  his  confidence. 

[14] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

Mr.  Shaw's  awful  consistency,  even  when  he  took 
to  religion,  drew  us  to  him  more  than  Mr.  Wells's 
willingness  to  modify  or  enlarge  his  views.  Mr. 
Belloc  and  Mr.  Chesterton  stimulated  us  in  a  dif- 
ferent way  from  that  in  which  Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr. 
Wells  stimulated  us.  Mr.  Wells  sent  us  out  into 
the  world  in  search  of  new  and  more  adequate  for- 
mulae; Mr.  Belloc  and  Mr.  Chesterton  checked  us 
in  headlong  flights  with  words  of  warning  and  re- 
monstrance. They  reminded  us  that  man  is  of  the 
earth,  earthy;  that  man  does  not  live  by  Good  Will 
alone;  that  society  is  composed  of  a  great  variety 
of  beings,  generous  and  mean,  exalted  and  debased, 
hearty  and  miserable,  noble  and  ignoble,  self- 
sacrificing  and  self-seeking,  kind  and  cruel;  and 
they  reminded  us  also  that  unless  we  took  care  to 
remember  fhis  vital  fact  of  the  variety  of  man, 
we  should  lose  our  way  in  the  deserts  ahead  of  us. 
They  told  us  that  Mr.  Wells's  "Good  Will"  was 
merely  Godwin's  "Universal  Benevolence"  all  over 
again,  and  that  Godwin's  doctrine  had  made  the 
way  easy  for  the  Utilitarians  and  the  growth 
of  a  devitalizing  political  theory  which  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  brutal  industrial  system  of  the 
first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.     Mr.  Wells 

[15] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS  READERS 

sought  to  convict  man  of  a  sense  of  stupidity  and 
disorganization,  but  they  sought  to  convict  him  of  a 
sense  of  sin.  Mr.  Wells  reminded  man  of  his 
power  to  aspire;  they  reminded  him  of  his  lapse 
from  grace.  Mr.  Wells  said,  "You  can  climb!" 
They  said,  "You  have  fallen!"  He  said,  "Think!" 
They  said,  "Repent!"  The  world,  in  Mr.  Wells's 
opinion,  needed  Love  and  Fine  Thinking.  In  the 
opinion  of  Mr.  Belloc  and  Mr.  Chesterton  it  needed 
the  love  of  God  and  faith  in  the  Catholic  Church. 
There  probably  was  less  difference  in  essentials 
between  Mr.  Wells  and  the  Chesterbelloc,  as  Mr. 
Shaw  nicknamed  them,  than  appeared  on  the  sur- 
face of  things.  The  Catholic  Church  in  its  organ- 
ized state  may  move  Mr.  Wells  to  admiration, 
though,  in  its  religious  aspect,  it  probably  moves 
him  only  to  derision.  It  is  a  shabby  sort  of  faith, 
with  a  tendency  to  tawdriness  which  makes  it  ulti- 
mately unsuitable  to  the  spiritual  needs  of  a  gentle- 
man, although  adequate  to  the  needs  of  servant- 
girls  and  actors.  No  one  who  has  visited  a  Cath- 
olic church  or  witnessed  the  ceremonials  in  Rome 
can  help,  if  he  or  she  be  possessed  of  any  culture 
at  all,  feeling  that  the  whole  business  is  second- 
rate:  the  effort  of  an  overblown  actor-manager  to 

[16] 


THE  AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

interpret  Shakespeare  in  pretentious  terms.  The 
fundamental  sanity  of  Mr.  Chesterton  has,  no 
doubt,  saved  him  from  the  folly  of  secession  to 
Rome,*  but  his  partiality  for  it  and  Mr.  Belloc's 
rigid  attainment  to  it,  made  the  young  men  of  my 
time  suspicious  of  the  Chesterbelloc.  Mr.  Belloc 
said,  on  a  public  occasion,  that  he  would  support 
the  Church  in  an  act  of  repression  if  the  Church 
came  into  serious  conflict  with  an  antagonist;  and 
he  proved  that  he  meant  what  he  said  by  applaud- 
ing the  execution  of  Ferrer,  the  anti-clerical,  in 
Spain.  It  was  natural,  perhaps,  that  my  Orange 
blood  should  boil  when  I  heard  Mr.  Belloc  palli- 
ating the  offences  of  his  obsolete  church,  but  my 
more  tolerant  friends  were  as  dashed  by  his  be- 
haviour as  I  was,  and  what  respect  we  had  for 
him  was  considerably  diminished  by  the  knowledge 
that  he  would  always  come  to  heel  when  some  priest 
snapped  fingers  at  him.  Neither  he  nor  Mr.  Ches- 
terton, although  their  criticism  interested  and  on 
occasions  checked  us,  ever  established  dominion 
over  us  because  of  their  preoccupation  with 
Catholicism.  They  might  spell  the  word  with  a  cap- 
ital C,  but  we  knew  very  well  that  Mr.  Belloc  in 
his  heart  spelt  it  with  a  small  one,  and  we  were 

[17] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

not  going  to  deliver  ourselves  into  the  hands  of 
men  who  were  priest-ridden,  however  "jolly" 
they  might  be  or  however  well  they  might  write. 

We  were  not  interested  in  their  beer-swilling  hab- 
its which  we  regarded  as  queer  nastinesses  in  other- 
wise reputable  persons.  Their  efforts  to  make  a 
tenet  of  religion  out  of  beer-swilling  seemed  to  us 
to  be  as  ridiculous  as  would  be  an  effort  by  a 
Chinaman  to  make  a  tenet  of  religion  out  of  opium- 
smoking. 

Mr.  Shaw  was  incontestably  the  supreme  figure 
among  these  men  of  mind  who  stimulated  and  in- 
fluenced the  young  men  and  women  of  the  Early 
Twentieth  Century.  I  doubt  whether  any  one  has 
ever  captured  or  held  the  fancy  of  young  men  as 
Mr.  Shaw  captured  and  held  our  fancy.  Dr. 
Johnson  had  an  influence  as  powerful  in  his  time 
as  Mr.  Shaw  had  in  ours;  but  Dr.  Johnson's  influ- 
ence was  mainly  exercised  over  men  of  older  years 
than  we  were,  of  more  established  habits  than  we 
had;  and  I  doubt  very  much  whether  he  affected 
their  thoughts  and  outlook  on  life  so  profoundly 
as  Mr.  Shaw  affected  us.  He  could  not  persuade 
the  faithful  Boswell  to  accept  his  view  of  the  Ameri- 
can colonists,   and  his  pamphlet,  "Taxation  No 

[18] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

Tyranny"  displeased  his  friends  as  much  as  it  ap- 
peared to  gratify  George  III  and  his  supporters. 
Dr.  Johnson  was  a  critic  and  a  scholar  with  very 
little  creative  ability;  he  was  too  conservative  a 
man  to  be  a  man  of  genius;  and  he  looked  back 
too  often  for  the  liking  of  young  men  who  are  al- 
ways looking  forward.  His  love  of  tradition  and 
settled  order,  while  it  was  pleasing  to  men  of  an 
age  when  comfort  and  security  and  familiar  things 
began  to  attract  the  mind  more  than  effort  and 
adventure  and  change,  made  him  unattractive  to  the 
stirring  minds  of  young  men.  Shelley  derived 
from  Godwin,  not  from  Johnson. 

There  is  a  passage  in  BoswelPs  "Life  of  Dr. 
Johnson"  in  which  Dr.  Johnson's  peculiar  views  on 
the  respect  due  to  men  of  rank  are  set  out  very 
clearly. 

"...  a  discussion  took  place,  whether  .  .  .  Lord  Cardross 
did  right  to  refuse  to  go  Secretary  of  the  Embassy  to 
Spain,  when  Sir  James  Gray,  a  man  of  inferior  rank, 
went  Ambassador.  Dr.  Johnson  said,  that  perhaps  in 
point  of  interest  he  did  wrong;  but  in  point  of  dignity 
he  did  well.  .  .  .  Sir,  had  he  gone  Secretary  while  his 
inferior  was  Ambassador,  he  would  have  been  a  traitor 
to  his  rank  and  family." 

[19] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

The  question,  to  Dr.  Johnson's  mind,  was  not  one 
of  merit:  Lord  Cardross  was  entitled  to  "go  Am- 
bassador," not  because  he  was  a  more  skilful  dip- 
lomatist than  Sir  James  Gray,  but  because  he  was 
a  lord  while  Sir  James  was  only  a  knight!  This 
extraordinary  doctrine,  which  may  be  held  account- 
able for  much  in  British  history,  might  appeal  to 
elderly  men  who  love  rules  and  regulations  and 
like  to  have  everything  neatly  set  out  in  books, 
but  it  certainly  does  not  appeal  to  young  men  who 
believe  in  conflicts  won  by  superior  qualities;  for 
young  men,  as  Dr.  Johnson  himself  said  on  one  oc- 
casion, "have  more  virtue  than  old  men;  they  have 
more  generous  sentiments  in  every  respect." 

Mr.  Shaw  is  incapable  of  uttering  such  a  re- 
mark as  Dr.  Johnson  uttered  in  support  of  Lord 
Cardross's  inept  behaviour.  He  has,  indeed,  said 
and  written  foolish  things  and  he  is  capable  of 
making  what  are  called  "debating"  points  and 
cheap  scores  and  of  saying  things  for  the  sake  of 
saying  them  or  of  annoying  the  complacent  and 
the  smug;  but  he  is  incapable  of  saying  anything 
which  supports  a  belief  that  one  man  shall  have 
precedence  over  another,  not  because  of  his  merit, 
but  because  of  his  birth.     Dr.  Johnson's  statement 

[20] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

was  not  a  casual,  fantastic,  perverse  statement;  it 
was  a  natural  result  of  his  general  theory  of  so- 
ciety. It  is  recorded  of  him  that  he  declined  to 
leave  a  room  until  a  Bishop  had  done  so  on  the 
ground  that  the  Bishop's  office  gave  him  a  title  to 
precedence  over  a  man  of  greater  mentality!  It 
was  not  humility  that  caused  Dr.  Johnson  to  be- 
have thus,  for  he  was  an  arrogant  man,  nor  was 
it  indifference  to  such  matters,  for  he  was  a  stickler 
for  respect  to  himself  even  when  he  did  not  de- 
serve respect:  it  was  his  belief  in  the  providential 
arrangement  of  society  in  settled  grades  that  caused 
him  to  behave  in  this  way.  The  man  was  entitled 
to  quit  the  room  first,  not  because  he  was  a  good 
man  or  a  great  man,  but  because  he  was  a  bishop! 
There  is  probably  some  convenience  in  this 
belief,  a  simple  method  of  preventing  incivility, 
but  it  is  a  small  convenience  which  does  not  greatly 
matter  to  youth. 

I  can  imagine  Mr.  Shaw  refusing  to  go  out  of 
the  room  before  the  Bishop  has  done  so,  in  sheer 
humility  or  indifference,  but  I  cannot  imagine  him 
refusing  to  do  so  because  of  his  regard  for  the 
man's  office  as  distinct  from  the  man  himself. 
And  it  is,  I  suppose,  his  irreverence  for  office,  more 

[21] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO    HIS   READERS 

than  anything  else,  which  draws  young  men  to 
him.  He  is  no  respecter  of  persons  or  authorities: 
he  criticizes  them  all,  high  or  low.  His  courage, 
his  vitality,  his  arrogance,  his  humility,  his  champ- 
ionship of  persecuted  persons,  his  impulse  to  help 
an  unpopular  cause  not,  as  stupid  people  imagine, 
because  it  is  unpopular,  but  because  it  seems  to 
him  to  be  a  just  cause,  and  his  absolute  indiffer- 
ence to  vested  interests  and  the  power  of  the  ma- 
jority— these  qualities  of  his  draw  young  men  to 
him  as  a  magnet  draws  a  needle.  It  is  significant, 
I  think,  that  Dr.  Johnson  had  a  very  strong  dis- 
like of  Dean  Swift  to  whom,  in  many  respects, 
Bernard  Shaw  bears  a  close  mental  resemblance. 
It  is  very  certain  that  had  Bernard  Shaw  lived  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  to  which,  in  spirit,  he  really 
belongs,  he  would  have  supported  the  Americans 
as  fiercely  as  Johnson  denounced  them;  and  I  do 
not  doubt  that  his  would  have  been  the  most  scath- 
ing and  powerful  of  the  pamphlets  written  in  reply 
to  "Taxation  No  Tyranny." 


[22] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

IV 

These,  then,  were  the  men  who  guided  in 
greater  or  less  degree  the  opinions  of  the  young 
men  and  women  of  the  Early  Twentieth  Century 
in  the  islands  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  "A. 
E."  greatly  influenced  young  Irishmen  who  re- 
mained curiously  unimpressed  either  by  Mr. 
Moore  or  Mr.  Yeats.  Rumours  of  his  doctrine 
came  to  the  ears  of  young  Englishman,  but  they 
had  no  personal  contact  with  him  as  they  had  with 
Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Wells  and  Mr.  Belloc  and 
Mr.  Chesterton.  It  is  not  possible  to  calculate 
the  extent  to  which  these  men  moulded  the  minds 
of  my  generation,  but  indisputably  it  was  large. 
No  one  who  grew  from  youth  to  manhood  between 
1900  and  1914  could  escape  from  their  influence, 
even  if  he  were  unconscious  of  it.  The  greater 
part  of  that  generation  died  in  the  War.  The 
young  men  who  drew  their  ideas  chiefly  from  Mr. 
Wells  and  Mr.  Shaw,  directly  or  indirectly,  did 
not  live  to  make  their  world,  and  so  we  can  never 
tell  what  good  or  ill  would  have  resulted  to  man- 
kind had  they  succeeded  to  authority.  Their 
bones  are  buried  in  France  and  Italy,  in  Pales- 

[23] 


THE   AUTHOR   TO   HIS   READERS 

tine  and  Turkey,  in  Russia  and  East  Africa,  on 
the  shores  of  Gallipoli  and  in  the  marshes  of  Sa- 
lonica,  in  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Indian  Ocean 
and  the  North  Sea;  and  there  is  nothing  to  remem- 
ber them  by  but  broken  lands  in  France  and  the 
broken  vows  of  politicians  the  world  over.  These 
young  men  went  out  to  die  in  a  mood  of  selfless- 
ness that  has  never,  perhaps,  been  equalled  or  ex- 
celled in  the  history  of  mankind;  and  when  their 
backs  were  turned,  they  were  betrayed.  We  can- 
not look  on  them  again,  but  we  may  find  com- 
fort in  our  loss  by  remembering  and  considering 
the  men  who  formed  the  faith  they  held. 


[24] 


"A.  E." 

(GEORGE    WILLIAM    RUSSELL) 
I 

In  all  the  books  on  Ireland,  considered  nationally, 
socially  and  economically,  that  have  been  written 
in  the  past  twenty  years,  two  men  inevitably  are 
mentioned:  Sir  Horace  Plunkett  and  "A.  E. ," 
whose  lawful  name  is  George  William  Russell. 
Men  of  affairs  in  most  parts  of  the  world  have 
heard  of  them,  and  I  imagine  that  very  few  of  the 
people  who  go  to  Ireland  with  any  serious  purpose 
fail  to  visit  them.  I  saw  Sir  Horace  Plunkett  re- 
ceive an  ovation  from  a  large  audience  in  New 
York  which  could  only  have  been  given  to  him  by 
people  who  had  some  knowledge  and  appreciation 
of  his  work  for  his  country;  and  I  was  impressed 
by  the  fact  that  many  Americans  asked  me  to  tell 
them  something  of  "A.  E."  And  yet,  though  the 
wide  world  is  not  ignorant  of  their  worth,  it  is 
very  likely  that  they  are  less  generally  known  in 

[25] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Ireland  than  some  paltry  politician  with  a  gift  for 
street-corner  rhetoric.  Once,  in  Dublin,  I  praised 
Sir  Horace  Plunkett  to  a  man  from  the  county  of 
Cavan,  who  interrupted  me  to  say  that  no  one  in 
his  village  had  ever  heard  of  Sir  Horace.  He 
seemed  to  imagine  that  the  ignorance  of  his 
neighbours  proved  a  dement  in  the  founder  of 
the  co-operative  movement  in  Ireland.  Your 
villagers,  said  I,  may  never  have  heard  of  Sir 
Horace  Plunkett  and  are  probably  very  familiar 
with  the  names  of  Mr.  Charles  Chaplin  and 
Miss  Mary  Pickford,  but  does  that  prove  that  Mr. 
Chaplin  is  a  greater  man  than  Sir  Horace?  I 
am  not  indifferent  to  the  merits  of  Mr.  Chaplin — 
I  would  go  a  long  way  to  see  him  in  the  movies 
— but  I  hope  I  shall  never  succumb  to  this  modern 
shoddy  democracy  which  will  not  believe  that  a 
man  possesses  quality  unless  his  name  is  printed 
frequently  in  the  newspapers  and  is  familiarly 
known  to  the  rabble.  It  may  be  that  Paudeen,  un- 
fit to  do  more  than  "fumble  in  a  greasy  till,"  as  Mr. 
Yeats  wrote  in  his  bitter  poem,  "September, 
1913,"  knows  little  or  nothing  of  Sir  Horace 
Plunkett  whose  life  labours  have  brought  so  much 
of  comfort  and  prosperity  to  him — but  who  cares 

[26] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

what  Paudeen  knows?  Let  him  grub  in  the  soil, 
as  God  made  him  to  grub,  while  men  of  mind  and 
quality  look  after  his  affairs.  It  is  sufficient  for 
the  knowledgeable  minority  that  they  know  of 
Sir  Horace  and  realize  the  value  of  the  great 
work  he  has  done  for  his  country.  A  false  opti- 
mism bids  us  to  believe  that  "we  needs  must  love 
the  highest  when  we  see  it,"  but  a  sense  of  reality 
convinces  us  that  the  highest  has  to  fight  harder 
for  recognition  than  the  lowest,  and  that  the  way 
to  the  throne  of  heaven  passes  through  Golgotha, 
the  place  of  a  skull. 

II 

If  it  be  true  that  Sir  Horace  Plunkett  is  less 
known  to  his  countrymen  than  some  fellow  with 
flashy  wits,  it  is  more  certain  to  be  true  that  his 
great  colleague  in  co-operation,  "A.  E. ,"  is  still 
less  known  to  them.  It  would  be  difficult  for 
any  intelligent  person  to  come  into  the  presence 
of  "A.  E."  and  remain  unaware  that  he  is  a  man 
of  merit.  He  fills  a  room  immediately  and  un- 
mistakably with  the  power  of  his  personality.  A 
tall,  bearded,  untidy  man,  with  full  lips  and  bulk- 

[27] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

ily-built  body,  he  draws  attention  by  his  deep, 
grey  eyes.  When  he  speaks,  other  people  listen. 
If  you  were  to  meet  him  in  the  street,  unaware  of 
his  identity,  and  he  were  to  ask  you  for  a  match 
with  which  to  light  his  pipe,  you  would  do  more 
than  civilly  comply  with  his  request.  You  would 
certainly  say  to  yourself,  "That's  a  remarkable 
man!"  It  is  said,  with  what  verity  I  cannot  say, 
that  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  and  "A.  E."  met  for  the 
first  time  in  a  picture-gallery  in  Dublin,  each  igno- 
rant of  the  other's  identity,  and  that  they  began 
to  talk  of  Art.  They  impressed  each  other  so 
greatly  that  they  continued  in  argument  for  a  long 
time,  and  only,  when  they  parted,  did  they  become 
known  to  each  other.  The  mountains  nod  to  each 
other  over  the  heads  of  the  little  hills;  and  men  of 
merit,  even  when  they  are  not  easily  recognized  by 
the  multitude,  are  known  to  each  other.  One  man 
of  merit  may,  indeed,  belittle  another  man  of  merit, 
as  Dr.  Johnson  belittled  Fielding,  as  George 
Meredith  belittled  Dickens,  as  Henry  James  be- 
littled Ibsen  and  Thomas  Hardy;  but  at  least 
they  are  aware  of  each  other. 


[28] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 


III 


Very  often  have  writers  told  the  story  of 
how  Sir  Horace  Plunkett,  a  tongue-tied,  hesitant 
man  with  very  delicate  health,  returned  to  Ireland 
after  a  long  stay  in  America,  to  begin  the  Co-oper- 
ative Movement,  and  found,  in  a  Dublin  shop,  keep- 
ing accounts  for  a  tea-merchant,  a  poet  and  a 
painter,  a  mystic  who  was  also  an  economist  with 
the  capacity,  as  it  afterwards  proved,  to  become 
the  ablest  journalist  in  Ireland.  This  man  of  mul- 
tiple energies  was  George  William  Russell,  who 
was  born  in  Lurgan,  in  the  County  of  Armagh,  on 
April  10,  1867.  He  is  two  years  younger  than 
Mr.  Yeats,  eleven  years  younger  than  Mr.  Shaw, 
and  fifteen  years  younger  than  Mr.  George  Moore. 
The  order  of  these  births  is  significant.  Observe 
how  an  aloof  artist  has  been  succeeded  by  a  furious 
economist!  Mr.  Moore,  who  began  life  as  a 
realist  after  the  manner,  but  not  after  the  style,  of 
Zola,  and  then  turned  his  back  on  Zola  and  sought 
the  company  of  Turgeniev  so  that  he  might  pursue 
apt  and  beautiful  words  and  delicate  and  elusive 
thoughts,  was  followed  by  Mr.  Shaw,  who  began 
life  by  filling  his  mind  with  the  ideas  of  Henry 

[29] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

George  and  Karl  Marx,  and  then  turned  his  back 
on  both  of  them  in  order  that  he  might  consort 
with  Mr.  Sidney  Webb.  Mr.  Yeats,  with  his  vague 
poetry  and  vague  mysticism — none  the  less  vague 
because  of  the  curious  care  for  exactness  which 
causes  him  to  count  the  nine  and  fifty  swans  at 
Coole  and  the  nine  bean  rows  on  Innisfree — fol- 
lowed Mr.  Shaw,  and  in  his  turn  was  followed  by 
"A.  E."  so  closely  connected  with  economics  that 
a  wag,  when  asked  what  was  the  meaning  of  "A. 
E's."  pen-name,  replied  "agricultural  economist."  * 
One  cannot,  however,  leave  the  matter  as  simply 
as  that.  Mr.  Shaw  likes  to  think  of  himself  as  an 
economist,  but  he  is  more  than  an  economist;  he 
is  John  the  Baptist  pretending  to  be  Karl  Marx. 
"A.  E."  likes  to  think  of  himself  as  an  expert  on 
the  price  of  butter  and  milk  and  cows  and  sheep, 
but  he  is  more  than  an  expert  on  these  things:  he 
is  Blake  pretending  to  be  Sir  Horace  Plunkett.     Or 

*  Mr.  Darrell  Figgis,  in  his  book  on  "A.  E.",  explains  the 
pen-name  thus:  "Wanting  at  one  time  a  new  pen-name,  he  sub- 
scribed himself  as  Aeon.  His  penmanship  not  at  all  times  being 
of  the  legiblest,  the  printer  deciphered  the  first  diphthong  and 
set  a  query  for  the  rest ;  whereupon  the  writer,  in  his  proof-sheets, 
stroked  out  the  query  and  stood  by  the  diphthong."  Since  then, 
however,  Mr.  Russell  has  abandoned  the  diphthong  and  prints 
his  pen  name  as  two  separate  letters. 

[30] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

Walt  Whitman  pretending  to  be  President  Wilson. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  Sir  Horace  Plun- 
kett  and  "A.  E.,"  colleagues  in  a  great  enterprise, 
are  the  embodiment  of  the  peculiarly  interwoven 
strands  of  Irish  character,  of  that  queer  mingling^ 
of  the  material  and  the  spiritual  in  the  Irish  people 
which  at  once  allures  and  astounds  the  Englishman, 
accustomed  to  keeping  his  materialism  and  his 
spirituality  in  separate  compartments.  Sir  Hor- 
ace has  a  neat  and  unexpected  wit,  but  he  does 
not  appear  to  me  to  have  much  feeling  for  poetry 
or  for  any  other  literature  or  art.  He  has  respect 
for  these  things  and  will  talk  on  them  sometimes 
with  singular  incisiveness,  but  his  interest  in  them 
is  an  outside  interest.  If  he  had  to  choose  between 
a  co-operative  creamery  and  the  Heroic  Legends 
of  Ireland,  I  do  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  he 
would  choose  the  co-operative  creamery.  "A.  E.," 
on  the  contrary,  would  choose  the  Heroic  Legends 
and  would  give  the  good  reason  for  so  doing  that 
without  the  Heroic  Legends,  the  co-operative  cream- 
ery is  useless.  When  "A.  E."  pleads  for  the  co- 
operative societies,  he  does  so  because  he  believes 
that  these  are  part  of  the  means  whereby  the  Irish 
people  will  be  restored  to  their  ancient  stature. 

[31] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

Organize  your  industry,  he  said  to  the  farmers, 
so  that  you  may  become  what  your  fathers  were, 
fit  company  for  the  Shining  Ones,  for  Lugh  and 
Balor  and  TVlanannan,  the  great  and  brave  and 
beautiful  Pagan  gods.  Each  by  himself,  Sir  Hor- 
ace or  "A.  E.,"  might  have  failed  to  make  much 
out  of  the  co-operative  movement  in  Ireland,  but 
both  together,  each  possessed  of  a  different,  yet 
complementary,  crusading  spirit,  could  not  fail 
to  make  a  happy  issue  of  it.  When  Garibaldi 
appealed  for  recruits  for  his  Thousand,  he  offered 
them  wounds  and  death.  When  Sir  Horace  Plun- 
kett  appealed  for  helpers  in  the  Irish  Agricultural 
Organization  Society,  he  offered  them  hard  and 
discouraging  labour  and  poor  wages.  Mankind, 
which  responds  to  a  noble  appeal  as  readily  as  it 
responds  to  a  base  appeal,  offered  its  best  to  both 
of  them.  Garibaldi  got  his  Thousand,  and  Sir 
Horace  Plunkett  got  his  colleagues. 

They  were  diverse  in  character,  and  included 
Nationalists  and  Unionists,  Catholics  and  Protes- 
tants, peers  and  peasants.  For  the  first  time  in 
Irish  history,  Irishmen  of  all  classes  wrere  united 
on  a  matter  which  had  no  relationship  with 
passions!     There  were  no  angry  emotions  astir 

[32] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

when  the  I.  A.  0.  S.  brought  the  diverse  elements  of 
the  Irish  entity  into  accord  as  there  had  been  when 
the  union  of  the  North  and  the  South  was  made 
many  years  earlier;  and  consequently  the  move- 
ment could  not  be  split,  as  that  Union  was,  by  the 
collision  of  one  angry  emotion  with  another.  In 
face  of  every  conceivable  discouragement  and 
even  of  active  enmity  and  in  spite  of  the  grave 
unhealth  of  Sir  Horace  himself,  the  movement 
grew  in  strength  until  now  it  is  indestructible.* 
Chief  among  the  colleagues  whom  Sir  Horace 
gathered  about  him  was  "A.  E."  Mr.  Russell 
could,  without  doubt,  earn  a  large  income  as  a 
journalist  if  he  were  to  offer  his  pen  to  a  rich 
newspaper  proprietor — his  weekly  review,  the 
Irish  Homestead,  is  the  most  ably-edited  and 
skillfully-written  organ  in  Ireland — and  he  could 
probably  earn  as  much  as,  if  not  more  than, 
he  receives  from  his  Co-operative  work  if  he  were 

*  I  leave  that  passage  unmodified,  despite  the  fact  that  the 
Black-and-Tans  in  the  course  of  their  fight  with  the  Sinn  Feiners 
(equally  disgraceful  to  both  of  them)  burnt  down  many  of  the 
creameries.  They  will  be  built  again.  Mr.  Lloyd  George  jeered 
at  Sir  Horace  Plunkett  soon  after  the  Black-and-Tans  had  per- 
formed most  of  their  infamous  work,  but  any  decent  person 
would  infinitely  prefer  to  be  Sir  Horace  with  his  burnt  creameries 
than  Mr.  Lloyd  George  with  his  burnt  principles. 

[33] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  his  mystical  and 
poetical  writings;  but  just  as  Mazzini  felt  him- 
self compelled  to  sacrifice  his  heart's  desire,  the 
life  of  a  man  of  letters,  in  order  to  devote  him- 
self to  a  political  career  which  was  distasteful  to 
him,  so  "A.  E."  felt  compelled  to  hitch  his  star  to 
Sir  Horace  Plunkett's  wagon,  and  for  many  years 
now  he  has  preached,  week  after  week,  the  gospel 
of  co-operation  to  Irish  farmers  when  he  would, 
perhaps,  have  preferred  exclusively  to  tell  stories 
of  the  ancient  gods  and  heroes. 

IV 

But  the  Co-operative  Movement  did  not  ab- 
sorb the  whole  of  his  energies.  He  is  as  many- 
sided  as  William  Morris  was,  almost  as  many- 
sided  as  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  His  work  on  the 
Irish  Homestead  would  seem  to  be  sufficient  to 
employ  all  the  vitality  of  a  healthy,  active  man, 
but  "A.  E."  cannot  be  contained  within  the  pages 
of  a  weekly  review,  and  so,  while  writing  four  or 
five  pages  every  week  of  the  finest  journalism  to  be 
found  in  Great  Britain  or  Ireland,  he  has  also  pro- 
duced seven  remarkable  books  and  painted  many 

[34] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

pictures,  engaged  in  political  and  economic  con- 
troversy, and  sat  as  a  member  of  the  Irish  Conven- 
tion which  endeavoured,  in  1917,  to  discover  a 
solution  of  the  Irish  Problem.  In  a  strange  and, 
to  me,  incomprehensible  book,  called  "The  Candle 
of  Vision,"  he  has  wrought  his  mysticism  to  such 
a  pitch  of  practicality  that  he  is  able  to  offer  his 
readers  an  alphabet  with  which  to  interpret  the 
language  of  the  Gods!  It  manifests  itself  in  some 
of  his  pictures,  where  strange,  luminous  and 
.brightly-coloured  creatures  are  seen  shining  in 
some  ordinary  landscape,  creatures  that  seemed 
to  me,  when  I  first  saw  them,  akin  to  Red  Indians. 
In  everything  that  he  writes  and  does,  there  is  a 
consciousness  of  some  spiritual  presence,  not  the 
spiritual  presence  of  the  Christian  theology,  but 
of  the  Pagan  Legends.  One  night,  in  his  house 
in  Dublin,  I  drew  the  attention  of  a  lady  to  one  of 
his  pictures,  a  dark  landscape,  in  the  centre  of 
which  a  very  brilliant  and  beautiful  creature  was 
dancing.  "A.  E."  turned  to  us  and  said,  "That's 
the  one  I  saw!"  and  I  remembered  the  story  I 
had  been  told  earlier  in  the  evening,  that  he  saw 
fairies,  that  he  actually  took  penny  tram-rides 
from  Dublin  to  go  up  into  the  mountains  to  see  the 

[35] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

fairies!  I  do  not  remember  what  the  lady  said, 
but  I  remember  that  she  looked  exceedingly  aston- 
ished, and,  indeed,  I  myself  felt  some  astonish- 
ment. If  Mr.  Yeats  had  said  that  he  had  seen 
a  fairy,  I  should  have  smiled  indulgently  and 
should  neither  have  believed  that  he  had  seen  one 
nor  that  he  himself  believed  that  he  had  seen  one. 
But  while  I  do  not  believe  that  "A.  E."  saw  a 
fairy,  otherwise  than  in  his  imagination,  I  am  cer- 
tain that  he  believes  he  saw  one,  not  as  a  creature 
of  the  mind,  but  as  one  having  flesh  and  blood. 
He  claims  no  peculiar  merit  for  himself  in  seeing 
visions.  "There  is  no  personal  virtue  in  me,"  he 
writes  in  "The  Candle  of  Vision,"  "other  than  this 
that  I  followed  a  path  all  may  travel  but  on  which 
few  do  journey."  He  tells  his  readers  how  they, 
too,  if  they  have  the  wish,  may  see  the  things  which 
he  has  seen,  and  he  gives  descriptions  of  some  of 
his  visions.  People  as  incredulous  as  I  am  can 
very  easily  dispose  of  "A.  E.'s"  visions  as  the  fan- 
tasies of  a  man  suffering  perhaps  from  inadequate 
nourishment — for  "A.  E."  was  careless  about  his 
meals  in  those  days — just  as  the  visions  of  St. 
Theresa  and  St.  Catherine  of  Sienna  may  be  ex- 
plained by  the  feverishness  of  mind  that  comes 

[36] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

to  people  who  are  starving  themselves  or  are  suf- 
fering from  neurosis.  Here  is  an  account  of  one 
of  his  visions.  You  are  to  understand  that  it  is 
not  a  dream  such  as  you  and  I  have  when  we  are 
asleep,  but  something  seen  by  a  man  who  is  awake 
at  broad  of  day,  something  actual,  something  that 
you  who  read  this  might  also  see  if  you  were  to 
follow  the  path  on  which  he  has  travelled: 

So  did  I  feel  one  warm  summer  day  lying  idly  on  the 
hillside,  not  then  thinking  of  anything  but  the  sunlight, 
and  how  sweet  it  was  to  drowse  there,  when,  suddenly,  I 
felt  a  fiery  heart  throb,  and  knew  it  was  personal  and 
intimate,  and  started  with  every  sense  dilated  and  intent, 
and  turned  inwards,  and  I  heard  first  a  music  as  of  bells 
going  away,  away  into  that  wonderous  underland 
whither,  as  legend  relates,  the  Danaan  gods  withdraw; 
and  then  the  heart  of  the  hills  was  opened  to  me,  and  I 
knew  there  was  no  hill  for  those  who  were  there,  and 
they  were  unconscious  of  the  ponderous  mountain  piled 
above  the  palaces  of  light,  and  the  winds  were  sparkling 
and  diamond  clear,  yet  full  of  color  as  an  opal,  as  they 
glittered  through  the  valley,  and  I  knew  the  Golden  Age 
was  all  about  me,  and  it  was  we  who  had  been  blind  to 
it  but  that  it  had  never  passed  away  from  the  world. 

The  Golden  Age  is  here,  at  this  moment,  and 
all  the  noble  creatures  who  filled  it  with  chivalry 

[37] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

and  beauty  are  crowding  about  us.     We  have  only 
to  open  our  eyes  and  we  shall  see!  .  .  . 

Once,  suddenly,  I  found  myself  on  some  remote  plain 
or  steppe,  and  heard  unearthly  chimes  pealing  passion- 
ately from  I  know  not  what  far  steeples.  The  earth- 
breath  streamed  from  the  furrows  to  the  glowing  heavens. 
Overhead  the  birds  flew  round  and  round  crying  their 
incomprehensible  cries,  as  if  they  were  maddened,  and 
knew  not  where  to  nestle,  and  had  dreams  of  some  more 
enraptured  rest  in  a  diviner  home.  1  could  see  a  plough- 
man lift  himself  from  his  obscure  toil  and  stand  with  lit 
eyes  as  if  he  too  had  been  fire-smitten  and  was  caught 
into  heaven  as  I  was,  and  knew  for  that  moment  he  was 
a  god. 

It  is  very  vague,  the  disbeliever  feels,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  it  to  make  one  accept  it  as  a  vision  of 
a  thing  actually  seen,  rather  than  fancied ;  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  the  intensity  with  which  "A.  E." 
believes  in  the  actuality  of  it.  These  visions  form 
the  foundation  of  his  political  and  economic  faith. 
He  advocates  co-operative  enterprise  because  he  be- 
lieves in  his  visions  as  actual  happenings.  In 
a  poem,  called  "Earth  Breath,"  he  says: 

From  the  cool  and  dark-lipped  furrows  breathes  a 
dim  delight 

[38] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Through  the  woodland's  purple  plumage  to  the 

diamond  night. 
Aureoles  of  joy  encircle  every  blade  of  grass 
Where  the  dew-fed  creatures  silent  and  enraptured 

pass. 
And  the  restless  ploughman  pauses,  turns,  and, 

wondering, 
Deep  beneath  his  rustic  habit  finds  himself  a  king. 

This  verse  is  obviously  a  poetical  account  of  the 
experience  he  underwent  "on  some  remote  plain 
or  steppe,"  and  the  final  couplet  of  it  gives  the 
explanation  of  his  belief  in  democracy.  If  he  had 
no  faith  in  the  god  in  man,  if  he  were  not  certain 
that  "the  restless  ploughman  .  .  .  deep  beneath 
his  rustic  habit  finds  himself  a  king,"  he  would 
probably  offer  his  allegiance  to  autocracy  and  be- 
lieve in  government  by  a  caste;  but  since  he  has 
seen  visions  and  is  convinced  that  there  is  a  god 
in  man,  he  cannot  be  other  than  a  democrat.  All 
his  political  strivings  have  been  directed  towards 
making  this  "a  society  where  people  will  be  at 
harmony  in  their  economic  life,"  as  he  writes  in 
"The  National  Being,"  and  "will  readily  listen  to 
different  opinions  from  their  own,  will  not  turn 
sour  faces  on  those  who  do  not  think  as  they  do, 
but  will,  by  reason  and  sympathy,  comprehend 

[39] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

each  other,  and  come  at  last,  through  sympathy 
and  affection,  to  a  balancing  of  their  diversities, 
as  in  that  multitudinous  diversity  which  is  the 
universe,  powers  and  dominions  and  elements  are 
balanced,  and  are  guided  harmoniously  by  the 
Shepherd  of  the  Ages."  Whether  such  a  world, 
balanced  in  that  way,  can  be  rightly  described  as 
a  democracy  is  not  a  matter  on  which  I  offer  any 
opinion  here,  though  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very 
long  way  from  what  the  common  man  considers 
a  democracy  to  be. 

V 

It  is  when  we  come  to  connect  his  visions  and 
the  beliefs  he  derives  from  them  with  the  actual 
circumstances  in  which  we  find  ourselves  that  we 
begin  to  be  most  dubious.  "National  ideals,"  he 
says  in  "The  National  Being,"  "are  the  possession 
of  a  few  people  only."  That  is  an  argument  for 
aristocracy. 

Yet  we  must  spread  them  in  wide  commonalty  over 
Ireland  if  we  are  to  create  a  civilisation  worthy  of  our 
hopes  and  our  ages  of  struggle  and  sacrifice  to  attain 
the  power  to  build.  We  must  spread  them  in  wide  com- 
monalty because  it  is  certain  that  democracy  will  prevail 
in  Ireland.     The  aristocratic  classes  with  traditions  of 

[40] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

government,  the  manufacturing  classes  with  economic 
experience,  will  alike  be  secondary  in  Ireland  to  the 
small  farmers  and  the  wage-earners  in  the  towns.  We 
must  rely  on  the  ideas  common  among  our  people,  and 
on  their  power  to  discern  among  their  countrymen  the 
aristocracy  of  character  and  intellect. 

With  the  deletion  of  the  word  "Ireland"  and 
the  substitution  of  the  word  "America,"  that  quota- 
tion might  stand  just  as  effective  for  the  United 
States  as  for  Ireland.  Why  is  it  certain  that 
democracy  will  prevail  in  Ireland?  Because  the 
small  farmers  and  the  wage-earners  in  the  towns 
will  take  precedence  over  the  aristocracy  and  the 
manufacturing  classes!  I  do  not  follow  that 
argument.  I  have  seen  nothing  in  England  or 
America  or  Ireland  or  France  to  convince  me  that 
if  the  small  farmers  and  the  wage-earners  in  the 
towns  were  authoritative  they  would  be  any  more 
democratic  than  the  aristocratic  or  the  manufac- 
turing classes.  I  have  seen  much  to  make  me 
feel  certain  that  they  will  use  their  authority  as 
implacably  in  their  own  interests  as  any  aristocrat 
or  manufacturer  ever  used  or  ever  will  use  his. 
Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton,  in  his  book,  "Irish  Impres- 
sions," produces  this  argument  in  favour  of 
peasant  proprietorship : 

[41] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

It  may  be  that  international  Israel  will  launch  against 
us  out  of  the  East  an  insane  simplification  of  the  unity  of 
Man,  as  Islam  once  launched  out  of  the  East  an  insane 
simplification  of  the  unity  of  God.  If  it  be  so,  it  is 
where  property  is  well  distributed  that  it  will  be  well  de- 
fended. The  post  of  honor  will  be  with  those  who  fight 
in  very  truth  for  their  own  land. 

It  is  indisputable  that  a  peasant  will  fight  for 
his  own  land,  the  tiny  portion  which  he  owns  and 
cultivates,  but  will  he  fight  for  another  man's  land 
when  that  man  is  unjustly  to  be  bereft  of  it? 
There  is  nothing  meritable  in  a  man  who  fights  for 
his  own  goods  and  lands,  nor  does  it  seem  to  me 
that  a  peasant  will  fight  for  his  potato-patch  with 
any  greater  determination  than  a  share  holder  in  a 
railroad  will  fight  for  the  interest  on  his  capital. 
There  certainly  is  not  anything  more  noble  or 
chivalrous  in  the  peasant's  desire  to  keep  posses- 
sion of  his  means  of  livelihood  than  there  is  in  that 
of  the  Liberty  Bondholder.  The  test  of  honour 
is,  not  what  will  you  do  for  yourself,  but  what  will 
you  do  for  other  men?  The  French  peasant  pro- 
prietors, the  Pennsylvania  Dutch,  the  Irish  peasant 
proprietors  may  offer  a  guarantee  of  stability  to 
society,  but  the  offer  may  carry  with  it  obstinate 

[42] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

reaction  and  a  gross  disregard  of  the  rights  of 
those  who  are  not  possessors  of  land.  It  will  not 
guarantee  the  landless  man  against  exploitation  in 
the  price  of  food  in  times  of  war  and  necessity.  It 
offers  singularly  little  hope  that  "national  ideals" 
will  be  spread  in  wide  commonalty,  if  the  peasants 
can  help  it.  "A.  E."  will  urge,  perhaps,  that 
while  "national  ideals  are  the  possession  of  a  few 
people  only,"  they  may  be  spread  in  wide  common- 
alty if  the  "few  people"  will  make  the  effort  to 
spread  them.  The  soil  lies  ready  for  the  seed. 
But  what  is  there  in  human  affairs  to  justify  any 
man  in  assuming  that  the  mass  of  men  are  likely 
to  be  long-suffering  in  idealism?  Is  it  not  a  fact 
of  human  nature  that  even  when  the  multitude  has 
been  stirred  to  some  act  of  exaltation,  the  staying 
power  of  the  multitude  has  not  been  sufficient  to 
maintain  the  exalted  mood  long  enough  to  render 
the  reactionaries  hopeless?  Where  are  the  gen- 
erous ideals  of  1914  now?  Has  not  the  war  that 
was  to  end  war  made  war  seem  more  probable? 
Is  not  the  world  at  this  moment  suffering  to  the 
point  of  distraction  because  the  multitude  cannot 
live  up  to  its  own  ideals  long  enough  to  make  them 
practical?     "The  gods  departed,"  says  "A.  E.", 

[43] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 


a 


the  half-gods  also,  hero  and  saint  after  that,  and 
we  [i.  e.  the  Irish  people]  have  dwindled  down  to 
a  petty  peasant  nationality,  rural  and  urban  life 
alike  mean  in  their  externals."  But  he  does  not 
despair.  "Yet  the  cavalcade,  for  all  its  tattered 
habiliments,  has  not  lost  spiritual  dignity."  And 
he  hopes  "the  incorruptible  atom"  in  us  will  make 
us  great  again.  Divine  optimism,  but  what  is 
there  in  peasant  society  to  justify  it? 


VI 


And  here  I  make  a  wide  digression  to  dis- 
course on  nationalism  and  peasant  states.  The 
world  conspires  to  believe  that  the  spirit  of  nation- 
ality is  a  desirable  one,  filling  men  with  the  purest 
ideals;  but  we  begin  to  realize  now  that  the  spirit 
of  nationality,  while  it  has  animated  many  noble 
men  and  brought  them  to  a  condition  of  extraor- 
dinary selflessness,  more  often  reduces  a  race  to 
a  state  of  mean  brutality  and  insufferable  smug- 
ness. The  self-satisfaction  of  a  Sinn  Feiner  is  as 
sickening  as  the  ruffianly  behaviour  of  a  Black-and- 
Tan,  and  the  outrages  committed  by  the  former 
are  more  despicable  than  the  outrages  of  the  lat- 

[44] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

ter,  because  the  Black-and-Tan  makes  no  pretences 
about  himself,  whereas  the  Sinn  Feiner  covers  his 
blackguardly  behaviour  with  a  cloak  of  virtuous  na- 
tionalism and  high  ideals.  What  is  there  to  choose 
between  the  Sinn  Feiners  who  seized  an  old  man 
of  seventy  and  dragged  him  from  a  tram-car  in 
Dublin  and  murdered  him  in  the  presence  of  ter- 
rorized Irishmen  (not  one  of  whom  had  the  com- 
mon pluck  to  risk  his  life  in  an  effort  to  save  him) 
and  the  Black-and-Tans  who  dragged  the  Mayor 
of  Limerick  from  his  bed  and  brutally  murdered 
him?  What  is  there  to  choose  between  the  noble- 
minded  Sinn  Feiners  who  took  old  Mrs.  Lindsay,  a 
woman  of  more  than  seventy  years,  and  shot  her 
and  her  aged  servant  dead  because  she  had  done 
what  any  spirited  woman  would  do,  warned  sol- 
diers who  were  on  her  side,  that  they  were  walking 
into  an  ambush — what  is  there  to  choose  between 
them  and  the  Orangemen  who  threw  bombs  into  the 
midst  of  little  Catholic  children  playing  games  in 
Belfast?  What  is  there  to  choose  between  the 
Sinn  Feiners  who  murdered  four  sick  men  (one  of 
them  dying  of  pleurisy)  in  their  beds  in  a  Galway 
hospital  and  the  Orangemen  who  murdered  the  Mc- 
Mahon  family  in  Belfast?     Very  little.     If  one 

[45] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

side  is  more  condemnable  than  the  other,  it  is 
those  who,  professing  noble  motives,  practice  foul 
deeds.  One  may,  perhaps,  find  excuses  for  the 
evil  acts  of  men  whose  minds  are  inflamed  with 
patriotic  emotions  which  cannot  be  found  for  a 
civilized  government  committing  similar  deeds  of 
atrocity.  Murder  by  the  former  may  be  less  rep- 
rehensible than  murder  by  the  latter,  but  the  dif- 
ference between  them  is  too  slight  to  be  worthy 
of  consideration.  Murder  remains  murder, 
whether  it  be  done  for  imperial  or  national  pur- 
poses, and  I  confess  to  feeling  more  respect  for 
the  plain  Black-and-Tan,  making  no  bones  about 
his  brutality  and  his  murders,  than  I  do  for  the 
Sinn  Feiner  who  commits  crimes  and  calls  them 
acts  of  virtue.  "A.  E.'s"  restless  ploughman  may 
pause  and  turn  and  wonder,  but  is  more  likely 
to  find  himself,  "deep  beneath  his  rustic  habit"  a 
Sinn  Fein  gunman  than  "a  king."  I  do  not  know 
how  "the  incorruptible  atom"  is  to  be  developed 
in  men  who  have  made  a  virtue  of  crime  and 
covered  up  their  infamies  with  hypocrisy;  and  "A. 
E."  amazingly  omits  to  tell  us  how  it  is  to  be  done. 
We  Irish  people — and  I  am  as  Irish  in  my  ori- 
gins and  emotions  as  any  man — suffer  from  the  sin 

[46] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

which  afflicts  all  subject  peoples:  the  sin  of  self- 
pity;  and  I  desire  self-government  for  Ireland, 
not  because  I  believe  that  the  Irish  people  can 
govern  themselves  better  than  the  English  have 
governed  them — I  take  leave  to  doubt  that  when 
I  remember  the  achievements  of  the  Irish  in  Amer- 
ica— but  because  I  can  see  no  hope  of  the  Irish 
people  acquiring  a  sense  of  reality  until  they  have 
freed  themselves  from  the  complacency,  the  smug- 
ness, the  self-satisfaction,  the  self-pity  which  are 
inevitable  in  subject  peoples.  When  they  have  dis- 
covered the  truth  about  themselves,  they  may  be 
able  to  govern  themselves.  And  the  truth  about 
the  Irish  people,  whether  they  be  Protestant  or 
Catholic,  from  the  North  or  the  South,  is  that  they 
are  a  brutal,  cruel,  greedy,  mean  and  treacherous 
people  who  have  humbugged  the  rest  of  the  world 
into  the  belief  that  they  are  a  faithful,  generous, 
high-minded,  kindly,  noble  and  tolerant  race.  We 
have  our  virtues,  but  by  our  insufferable  content- 
ment with  ourselves  we  have  made  vices  of  them. 
Our  literature,  particularly  our  modern  literature, 
plainly  reveals  the  truth  about  us.  Synge,  Padraic 
Colum,  Lennox  Robinson,  Daniel  Corkery,  James 
Joyce — all  these  have  shown  us  an  Irish  people 

[47] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

completely  false  to  the  world's  common  belief 
about  them.  I  remember,  when  Mr.  Robinson's 
bitter  comedy,  "The  White-Headed  Boy,"  was  first 
performed  in  London,  being  asked  by  an  English 
dramatic  critic  whether  I  recognized  my  country- 
men in  Mr.  Robinson's  characters.  I  said  "Yes," 
and  he  replied  in  accents  of  disgust,  "But  they're 
horrible  people!  There  isn't  one  of  them  for 
whom  any  decent  person  can  feel  sympathy!  .  . 
"Exactly,"  I  said.  And  what  our  literature  is  now 
revealing,  our  acts  and  history  have  long  made 
clear.  We  are  at  the  culmination  of  centuries  of 
oppression  and  cruel  treatment.  To  the  natural 
treachery  and  brutality  of  the  Celt  must  be  added 
the  treachery  and  brutality  which  are  provoked  by 
misgovernment.  The  broad  fact  about  us  is  that 
we  have  been  so  accustomed,  by  nature  and  by 
circumstances,  to  occasions  of  harsh  and  violent 
conduct  that  we  find  nothing  startling  in  them, 
provided  we  can  give  them  a  patriotic  gloss.  Our 
satisfaction  with  ourselves  is  so  intense  that  we 
imagine  our  little  efforts  in  literature  to  be  greater 
than  those  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  We  prate 
incessantly  about  the  ancient  Gaelic  literature,  but 
are  reluctant  to  produce  the  evidence  for  our  boast- 

[48] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

ing.  We  forget  that  the  Irishmen  of  distinction  in 
literature,  Goldsmith,  Sheridan,  Wilde,  Shaw, 
Yeats,  Moore  and  Synge,  are  not  Celtic  at  all,  but 
Anglo-Saxon  in  origin.*  All  of  them,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Mr.  Moore,  are  Protestant,  and  even 
Mr.  Moore  became  a  Protestant.  "A.  E."  him- 
self is  an  Ulster  Protestant  with  a  Scotch  name. 
The  O's  and  the  Macs,  who  are  reputed  to  be 
compounded  of  poetry  and  noble  thoughts  have 
furnished  the  world  with  little  but  soldiers,  cattle- 
drivers,  Sinn  Fein  gunmen  and  Tammany  bosses. 
We  have  sponged  upon  the  world,  and  the  world 
is  utterly  sick  of  us. 

Our  absorption  in  ourselves  is  so  complete  that 
we  demand  consideration  for  our  academic  griev- 
ances which  rightly  belongs  to  the  ruined  races  of 
Europe.  Ireland  is  the  only  country  in  the  world 
which  made  a  profit  out  of  the  War,  yet  her  be- 
haviour during  it  was  that  of  an  hysterical  woman 
who  should  rush  into  the  presence  of  a  man 
bleeding  to  death  and  exclaim,  "My  God,  I've  got 
toothache!"  Millions  of  Russians  are  dying  of  dis- 

*  Parnell,  the  greatest  political  leader  the  Irish  Catholics  have 
ever  had,  was  a  Protestant  of  Anglo-Saxon  origin.  Like  Synge, 
he  belonged  to  a  family  which  came  to  Ireland  originally  from 
Cheshire  in  the  North  of  England. 

[49] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

ease  and  hunger  with  less  complaint  than  a  Sinn 
Feiner  makes  about  his  obsolete  language  which 
he  cannot  speak,  will  not  write  and  does  not  wish 
to  learn.  Millions  of  Austrians  are  without  the 
elementary  decencies  of  life,  but  they  do  not  whine 
over  their  ills  as  Sinn  Feiners  whine  over  ills  which 
they  have  not  got.  Snivelling  and  whining,  in- 
deed, are  the  most  obvious  characteristics  of  the 
modern  Irishman,  Catholic  or  Protestant,  added 
to  an  impudent  demand  that  his  affairs  shall  be 
treated  as  of  greater  consequence  than  those  of 
the  rest  of  mankind. 

To  crown  all,  we  are  allowing  ourselves  to  be 
dominated  by  peasant  ideals:  the  little  narrow  de- 
mands of  men  who  care  only  for  their  own  inter- 
ests and  not  at  all  for  their  neighbours'.  We  have 
seen  how  the  curse  of  nationality  together  with 
the  curse  of  peasant  principles  have  helped  to  ruin 
Europe.  When  we  are  asked  to  believe  in  "the 
incorruptible  atom"  of  the  peasant,  we  look  to  the 
Balkan  States  and  see  a  foulness  which  spread  a 
plague  across  a  continent.  When  we  are  told  of 
"the  spiritual  dignity"  of  the  peasant  community, 
v/e  look  to  France  and  see  a  nation  so  corrupted 
with  peasant  greed  and  peasant  fright  that  the 

[50] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Peace  Treaty  threatens  to  be  a  more  potent  force 
for  war  and  bloodshed  than  all  the  Kaisers  that 
have  ever  lived  put  together.  And  when  we  are 
told  that  the  patriotic  peasant  "deep  beneath  his 
rustic  habit  finds  himself  a  king"  we  look  to  Ire- 
land and  see  young  men,  masked  and  armed,  seiz- 
ing old,  unarmed  men  and  old,  unarmed  women 
and  sick  and  dying  men  and  little  children,  and 
brutally  murdering  them.  These  be  your  Gods,  0 
Israel.  These  be  your  high-minded  patriots,  your 
selfless  peasants,  your  noble  army  of  idealists! 

If  we  are  to  govern  ourselves,  we  can  only  hope 
to  do  so  manfully  if  we  begin  by  humiliating  our- 
selves before  God  and  man.  We  have  made 
claims  on  the  world's  regard  which  we  are  not  en- 
titled to  make  and  cannot  maintain.  If  "the  in- 
corruptible atom"  is  in  our  national  being  at  all — 
if  we  are  not  a  foul  and  cantankerous  race  destined 
by  Almighty  God  to  perish  utterly  from  the  earth 
because  we  are  unfit  to  survive — then  for  each  of 
us  the  principal  purpose  of  life  must  be  a  pro- 
longed process  of  purification.  We  have  sinned, 
we  have  sinned,  we  have  sinned,  but  we  have  not 
repented.  We  have  pretended  that  our  sin  was  a 
virtue  and  have  demanded  admission  to  the  society 

[51] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

of  our  betters  on  the  plea  that  we  are  their  equals, 
if  not  their  superiors,  when  in  fact  we  are  not  fit 
to  be  in  their  company  at  all;  and  our  task  now 
and  for  a  long  time  must  be  the  bitter  one  of 
acknowledging  the  truth  to  ourselves  and  striving 
to  justify  our  boasting  to  other  men.  We  have  to 
rid  ourselves  of  vain-glory  and  self-pity,  of  cant 
and  humbug,  of  cruelty  and  hatred,  of  backbiting 
and  slander,  of  false  pride,  of  whining  and  snivel- 
ling, of  corrupt  living  and  a  mean  religion.  There 
are  evil  things  in  our  nature  and  more  evil  things 
in  our  circumstances  which  we  must  somehow  sub- 
due if  we  are  to  come  to  equality  with  the  civilized 
races  of  the  world,  but  they  will  not  be  subdued  un- 
til we  have  learned  to  acknowledge  facts  and  have 
discovered  that  hatred  is  a  device  of  the  devil 
whereby  men  are  destroyed  and  the  world  is  made 
a  wilderness.  We  can  neither  live  nor  let  live 
until  we  have  filled  our  hearts  with  love  and  char- 
ity. Nor  will  there  be  any  hope  in  our  lives 
until  we  have  abandoned  the  mean  divisions  which 
keep  the  North  Irishman  in  bitter  enmity  with  the 
South  Irishman.  These  two  are  necessary  to  each 
other,  the  first  for  his  stability  and  judgment  and 
governing  ability,  the  second  for  his  vision  and 

[52] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

faith  and  docility.  There  are  millions  of  Irish- 
men or  men  of  Irish  origin  in  the  United  States, 
yet  no  Irish  Catholic  or  man  of  Irish  Catholic  ori- 
gin has  risen  to  Presidency  of  his  country.  Three 
men  of  Ulster  Protestant  origin  have  done  this. 
The  Irish  Catholic  has  given  corrupt  politics  to 
America.  He  has  not  given  anything  else.  The 
Ulster  people,  the  only  compact  people  in  Ireland, 
whose  blood  has  hardly  been  mingled  with  other 
blood  in  three  centuries  and  more — there  is  not  a 
drop  of  English  blood  in  my  veins,  a  claim  which 
cannot  easily  be  maintained  by  Irishmen  south  of 
the  Boyne — contemplate  the  scene  in  Ireland  now 
with  misgiving  and  astonishment.  They,  whatever 
their  faults,  chose  an  Irishman  for  their  leader,  but 
the  Sinn  Feiners  could  not  throw  up  from  among 
themselves  a  man  to  lead  them.  They  chose,  first, 
an  Englishman,  called  Padraic  Pearse.  They 
chose  second,  an  American  Jew,  called  De  Valera, 
whose  principal  adviser  is  an  Englishman,  called 
Erskine  Childers,  whose  domestic  urge  is  his 
American  wife,  infatuated  with  the  thought  that 
she  is  the  reincarnation  of  Joan  of  Arc.  And  the 
Ulstermen,  free  from  dialectical  intricacies,  listen 
to  the  tortured,  worn-out  sentiments  uttered  by  Mr. 

[53} 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

De  Valera,  not  in  fear,  but  in  contempt.  That 
long,  lean  Jew,  trained  by  Jesuits,  possessed  in 
double  measure  of  the  narrow,  uninspired  ideal- 
ism of  his  race  and  furnished  with  the  casuistical 
devotion  of  his  teachers,  is  an  honest  man,  with 
cold,  humourless,  fanatical  eyes,  whose  unrecep- 
tive  mind  guards  itself  against  knowledge  by  bar- 
riers of  bigotry,  hatred,  obstinacy,  disbelief  and 
self-deception.  He  has  the  dishonesty  that  is 
sometimes  found  in  a  very  honest  man,  the  dis- 
honesty one  might  expect  to  find  in  a  man  trained 
in  a  Jesuit  school:  for  there  are  few  acts  of  unscru- 
pulousness  that  he  will  not  commit  to  achieve  the 
end  he  devoutly  desires.  When  he  was  asked  on 
one  occasion  what  his  attitude  would  be  to  the  Ul- 
ster people  if  they  refused  to  give  allegiance  to  an 
Irish  Republic,  he  replied  that  he  would  blast 
Ulster  from  his  path,  unaware  seemingly  that  blast- 
ing is  a  bad  business  in  which  more  than  one  party 
can  participate.  I  put  the  question  to  him  myself 
in  the  Commodore  Hotel  in  New  York  at  a  meeting 
of  the  League  of  Free  Nations;  and  his  reply  was 
that  he  would  present  the  Ulster  people  with  these 
alternatives:  they  might  remain  in  Ireland  under 
the  Republic  or  they  might  go  out  of  Ireland  al- 

[54] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

together  with  compensation  for  their  property.  It 
did  not  occur  to  Mr.  De  Valera  that  of  these  al- 
ternatives, Ulstermen  would  choose  neither.  How 
far  he  had  considered  the  question  of  finance  in- 
volved in  schemes  of  compensation,  I  do  not  know, 
although  I  suspect  his  mind  to  be  innocent  of  much 
financial  knowledge;  but  I  wonder  how  he  would 
raise  the  money  with  which  to  compensate  a  single 
firm  in  Belfast,  that  of  Harland  and  Wolff,  the 
shipbuilders,  if  they  elected  to  build  their  ships 
in  Southampton;  and  I  wonder  still  more  how  he 
would  raise  the  men  and  the  money  to  carry  on 
those  works  after  Harland  and  Wolff  had  taken 
themselves  away!  But  such  suppositions  are  idle, 
for  Ulstermen  will  not  let  themselves  be  disturbed 
in  their  homes  by  one  who  is  not  their  country- 
man. The  story  of  my  family  in  Ulster  is  typical 
of  the  story  of  hundreds  and  thousands  of  families 
there.  All  my  forefathers,  on  my  mother's  side 
and  my  father's  side,  for  three  hundred  years  of 
which  we  have  record  and  for  a  longer  period  of 
which  we  have  incomplete  records,  were  born  and 
bred  and  buried  in  the  County  of  Down,  with  the 
exception  of  my  maternal  grandfather  who,  al- 
though born  and  bred  in  Down,  died  and  was  bur- 

[55] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

ied  in  America.  And  we,  so  indigenous  to  the 
soil  as  that,  are  bidden  to  acknowledge  Mr.  De 
Valera  for  our  President  or  clear  out  of  our  homes, 
although  Mr.  De  Valera  is  an  American  citizen, 
born  in  New  York,  whose  first  act,  if  he  were  Presi- 
dent of  the  Irish  Republic,  would  have  to  be  one  of 
naturalization!  We  will  see  Mr.  De  Valera 
damned  first.  This  strange  intruder  into  Irish  pol- 
itics has  brought  in  his  trail  a  terrible  procession 
of  young  men  trained  to  take  life  lightly,  to  listen 
to  no  argument  but  that  of  the  revolver;  and  the 
end  of  that  procession  is  out  of  sight.  It  is  more 
easy  to  train  men  to  take  life  than  it  is  to  train  them 
to  preserve  it.  We  cannot  say  to  a  man,  "Thus  far 
shalt  thou  kill,  but  no  further!"  and  those  whom 
we  have  taught  to  commit  crime  in  the  name  of 
patriotism,  may  continue  to  commit  crime  for  per- 
sonal profit.  "And  so,  to  the  end  of  history,"  as 
Caesar  says  in  Mr.  Shaw's  play  "murder  shall 
breed  murder,  always  in  the  name  of  right  and 
honour  and  peace,  until  the  gods  are  tired  of  blood 
and  create  ^  race  that  can  understand." 


[56] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

VII 

Sometimes  I  say  to  myself  that  "A.  E."  has  lived 
too  long  and  too  exclusively  in  Ireland.  He  is  not 
free  from  the  mush  of  sentimentality  with  which 
Irishmen  regard  themselves,  this  everlasting  self- 
congratulation  that  Irishmen  are  not  as  English- 
men, this  smug  preoccupation  with  their  own  vir- 
tues and  bland  disregard  of  their  vices,  this  eter- 
nal denial  that  they  have  any  demerits.  If  the 
Irish  people  are  to  recover  the  dignity  and  the 
stature  of  the  gods,  they  must  display  god-like 
qualities  or  prove  that  they  possess  them.  It  is  not 
sufficient  to  assert  that  they  possess  these  qualities, 
at  the  same  time  denying  them  by  nagging  con- 
tinually at  their  neighbours.  I  have  wished  at 
times  that  "A.  E."  could  be  removed  from  the 
atmosphere  of  adulation  which  envelopes  him  in 
Dublin,  and  sent,  without  letters  of  introduction, 
on  a  tour  round  the  world.  He  has  probably  trav- 
elled less  than  any  other  educated  man  in  Ireland. 
He  passes  from  his  home  in  Rathmines,  a  suburb 
of  Dublin,  to  the  office  of  the  Irish  Homestead  in 
Merrion  Square,  from  one  centre  of  adulation  to 
another,  with  occasional  visits  to   the  home   of 

[57] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

James  Stephens,  where  he  meets  the  same  people 
that  visit  him  on  Sunday  nights,  or  to  the  Her- 
metic Society,  where  he  meets  them  again.  He  is 
too  fine  a  spirit  to  be  seriously  affected  by  the  pal- 
try gabble  of  the  third-rate  minds  he  encounters  on 
most  occasions  in  Dublin,  and  perhaps  it  hardly 
matters  that  he  seldom  leaves  Dublin  and  hardly 
ever  leaves  Ireland;  but  even  so  rare  a  man  as 
"A.  E."  must  suffer  contraction  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  Dublin.  He  has  resources  that  few  men 
possess:  a  quiet  mind,  a  vivid  faith  and  the  love 
and  respect  of  very  dissimiliar  people.  He  can 
turn  from  the  consideration  of  agricultural  prices 
in  the  Irish  Homestead  to  the  esoteric  alphabet 
with  which  he  speaks  to  the  Gods,  or  he  can  go  off 
to  the  mountains  of  Donegal  and  make  pictures. 
When  painting  no  longer  delights  him,  he  can 
spend  his  nights  and  days  in  making  poems.  He 
is  extravagantly  generous  to  young  writers,  giving 
greater  praise  to  them  sometimes  than  they  deserve, 
giving  less  of  criticism  than  is  necessary.  There 
are  minor  poets  in  Dublin,  authors  of  thin  books 
of  thin  verse,  who  have  persuaded  themselves,  be- 
cause of  "A.  E's."  praise,  that  they  are  more 
meritable  than  they  are.     There  are  people  in  Dub- 

[58] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

lin  who  seem  to  believe  that  Ireland  has  produced 
a  greater  literature  than  England  and  will  de- 
nounce you  as  a  traitor  to  your  country  if  you  pro- 
test that  she  cannot  show  poets  of  the  stature  of 
Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Shelley,  Keats 
Wordsworth,  Browning  and  Tennyson,  with  the 
exception  of  Mr.  Yeats.  I  am  the  sort  of  patriot 
who  would  like  to  see  his  country  raise  herself  to 
the  level  of  other  countries,  but  I  am  not  the  sort 
of  patriot  who  will  pretend  that  she  is  on  the 
level  of  England  and  France  and  Germany  when, 
in  fact,  she  is  far  below  it.  "A.  E."  is  not  entirely 
free  from  blame  for  this.  He  could  have  given 
Ireland  a  sense  of  proportion,  had  he  cared  to 
do  so. 

VIII 

I  have  a  picture  by  "A.  E."  of  an  ascending  road 
on  the  side  of  a  mountain.  There  is  rain  in  the 
air,  and  the  road  has  a  lonely,  unfrequented  look. 
Yet,  though  there  is  no  living  creature  visible  in 
the  picture,  Life  fills  it.  I  feel  sometimes  when 
I  sit  back  in  my  chair  and  look  at  "The  Mountain 
Road"   that   there   are  divine  beings  behind  the 

[59] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

bushes,  that  if  I  could  only  climb  up  that  road 
and  turn  the  corner  of  the  mountain,  I  should  come 
upon  the  Golden  Age.  Is  it  not  ungracious  to 
make  complaint,  even  if  the  complaint  be  a  slight 
one,  of  a  man  who  can  make  the  invisible  world  so 
powerfully  felt  as  that?  And  if  he  persuades  me, 
by  nature  sceptical,  almost  to  believe  in  the  Shin- 
ing Ones,  how  much  more  strong  must  his  influence 
be  on  those  who  are  eager  to  believe!  When  the 
evil  temper  which  possesses  Ireland  at  this  moment 
has  subsided,  the  fine  temper  of  "A.  E."  will  rise 
again  and  call  Irishmen  to  a  kindlier  mood.  The 
little  town  of  Lurgan,  in  which  he  was  born,  is 
notorious  in  Ulster  for  the  harshness  of  its  reli- 
gious dissensions.  A  base  bigotry  flourishes  there. 
It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  from  a  place  of 
great  bitterness  should  have  come  a  man  of  re- 
conciliation, bidding  Catholic  and  Protestant  to 
meet,  not  in  Geneva  or  in  Rome,  but  on  the  holy 
hills  of  Ireland,  under  the  protection  of  the  ancient 
gods. 


[60] 


ARNOLD  BENNETT 


One  night,  some  years  before  the  outbreak  of  the 
European  War,  I  arrived  in  the  town  of  Hanley 
in  the  County  of  Stafford  in  the  midlands  of  Eng- 
land to  deliver  a  lecture  on  some  subject,  the  name 
of  which  I  do  not  now  remember,  although  I  sus- 
pect it  was  connected  with  the  general  improve- 
ment of  mankind.  I  had  accepted  the  invitation 
to  lecture  in  Hanley,  not  because  I  had  anything 
of  importance  to  say  to  its  inhabitants,  but  be- 
cause I  had  lately  read  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale"  by 
Mr.  Arnold  Bennett,  and  was  eager  to  see  the  place 
and  the  people  from  which  that  great  book  had 
sprung.  My  recollections  of  the  visit  are  very 
vague  now,  but  I  remember  that  my  host,  a  man 
of  serious  mind,  a  little  over-weighted,  perhaps, 
by  the  troubles  of  the  universe,  took  me  for  a 
walk  on  Sunday  morning  through  some  of  "the 
Five  Towns,"  in  the  course  of  which  he  displayed 

[61] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

much  knowledge  of  the  topography  of  Mr.  Ben- 
nett's books  without  displaying  much  knowledge 
of  the  books  themselves.  He  informed  me  that 
the  real  name  of  "Trafalgar  Road"  in  "The  Old 
Wives'  Tale"  is  "Waterloo  Road"  and  that  the  fic- 
titious name  of  Hanley  is  "Hanbridge."  He  spec- 
ulated incuriously  on  the  oddness  which  had 
caused  Mr.  Bennett  to  alter  real  names  in  this 
palpable  manner,  and  ended  his  discourse  with 
the  statement  that  he  seldom  read  novels  (which 
he  persisted  in  calling  "Works  of  Fiction")  being 
more  inclined  to  the  study  of  serious  books.  I 
learned  that  he  read  chiefly  in  the  writings  of 
sociologists  and  political  economists  and  similar 
serious  persons.  I  suggested  to  him  that  he 
might  more  profitably  read  novels  than  sociolog- 
ical books  if  he  wished  to  discover  something 
about  human  character.  He  was  a  polite  and 
kindly  man,  and  he  did  not  abruptly  tell  me  of  my 
folly,  but  I  could  see  that  he  considered  me  to  be 
a  fool  or,  at  best,  a  flippant  person,  and  I  am  sure 
that  had  he  not  been  my  host  he  would  not  have 
troubled  to  attend  my  lecture  that  evening.  He 
smiled  in  the  benign  way  men  have  when  they  ab- 
stain from  expressing  their  frank  opinion,  as  he 

[62] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

listened  to  me  saying  that  he  would  find  in  novels 
a  greater  fund  of  information  about  human  na- 
ture than  he  could  hope  to  find  in  all  the  works  that 
all  the  sociologists  in  the  world  have  written.  Men 
of  affairs,  I  said,  spend  their  lives  in  writing 
ponderous  volumes  on  society  which  are  out-of- 
date  as  soon  as  they  are  published,  whereas  the 
novel  or  the  play  of  a  man  of  genius  remains  true 
for  ever.  Henry  Fielding  and  Adam  Smith  were 
contemporaries,  but  I  imagine  few  will  deny  that 
there  is  more  durable  stuff,  stuff  more  continuously 
applicable  to  human  concerns,  in  "Tom  Jones" 
than  there  is  in  "The  Wealth  of  Nations."  But  my 
friend  would  have  none  of  this,  and  seemed  to  think 
that  any  man  who  spent  time  in  reading  Fielding's 
novel  which  might  be  spent  in  reading  Adam  Smith 
was  shamefully  misusing  his  mind.  He  led  me,  I 
remember,  through  much  of  the  territory  which  is 
generically  known  as  "the  Five  Towns."  I  saw 
the  Square  in  which  the  Baineses  lived,  and  was 
told  that  although  Mr.  Bennett  called  it  "St.  Luke's 
Square"  in  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale,"  the  local  au- 
thorities preferred  to  call  it  after  St.  John.  So 
great  was  the  influence  of  the  novel  upon  me  that 
when  I  peered  through  the  window  of  the  shop  in 

[63] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

which,  so  I  was  told,  Constance  and  Sophia  Baines 
were  born,  I  almost  expected  to  see  the  half -heroic 
figure  of  Samuel  Povey  behind  the  counter  or  to 
meet  the  cold,  un-human  glance  of  that  frozen 
spinster,  Miss  Marie  Insull,  who  once,  and  once 
only,  displayed  signs  of  human  emotion — on  the 
occasion  when  Mr.  Critchlow  brought  her  into  the 
presence  of  the  widowed  Constance  to  announce 
his  betrothal  to  her: 

The  dog  had  leisurely  strolled  forward  to  inspect  the 
edges  of  the  fiance's  trousers.  Miss  Insull  summoned 
the  animal  with  a  noise  of  the  fingers,  and  then  bent 
down  and  caressed  it.  A  strange  gesture  proving  the 
validity  of  Charles  Critchlow's  discovery  that  in  Maria 
Insul  a  human  being  was  buried. 

My  host  led  me  up  stony  streets,  in  which  every 
sort  of  domestic  architecture  was  visible — for  "the 
Five  Towns"  are  so  independent  that  even  in  the 
workmen's  houses  there  is  no  uniformity  of  style 
or  harmony  of  design,  a  fact  which  makes,  not  for 
a  pleasing  diversity,  but  for  shapelessness  and 
incoherence — and  pointed  to  places  in  the  ground 
where,  so  he  said,  the  earth  had  opened,  owing  to 
underground  operations,  and  swallowed  whosoever 
should  happen  to  be  passing  over  it.     There  was 

[64] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

a  story  of  a  man  who  had  set  forth  in  the  morning 
to  go  to  his  work,  but,  before  he  had  travelled 
many  yards  from  his  home,  was  suddenly  consumed 
by  the  opening  earth  and  was  never  seen  again.  I 
will  admit  that  I  trod  those  streets  thereafter  with 
trepidation  and  considerable  care!  I  had  begun 
to  tire  of  the  ugly  houses  with  their  insufferable 
architecture,  and  of  the  grime  caused  by  innumer- 
able chimneys  emitting  thick,  black  smoke,  when  I 
was  led  up  a  steep  street  at  the  top  of  which  I  was 
told  to  halt  and  gaze  about  me.  I  saw  the  whole 
of  "the  Five  Towns"  and  much  of  the  surrounding 
country  spread  out  like  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
and  realized  how  strangely  moving  such  a  scene 
can  be  because  of  its  suggestion  of  human  pres- 
ences. It  was  not  without  beauty,  in  spite  of  the 
gloom  of  an  industrial  area,  but  it  impressed  me 
most  by  its  air  of  effort  and  power  and  achieve- 
ment. I  became  conscious  of  the  activities  of  men 
and  women,  of  great  labours,  of  confused  strivings 
out  of  which  some  human  need  is  satisfied,  and  I 
came  away,  as  I  always  come  away  from  such 
sights,  immensely  impressed  by  human  organiza- 
tion and  very  satisfied  with  great  machines.  When 
we  had  descended  from  that  high  street  and  had 

[65] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

walked  elsewhere,  I  found  myself  suddenly  con- 
fronting a  railway  station  on  which  I  saw  the  ro- 
mantic name  of  etruria. 


II 

Etruria,  the  country  of  the  Etruscans  in  Italy, 
was,  I  suppose,  a  very  different  place  from  Etruria, 
the    small    town    between    Hanley    and    Burslem 
("Hanbridge"     and     "Bursley")     where     Josiah 
Wedgwood  founded  his  pottery  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  but  the  spirit  which  produced  the  Etruscan 
ceramics  was  not  dissimilar  from  the  spirit  which 
produces    the    famous    Wedgwood    ware;    and    I 
thought  to  myself  as  I  looked  at  the  romantic  name 
of  that  grimy-looking  town  in  Staffordshire  that  I 
had  stumbled  on  the  secret  of  Mr.  Bennett.     Un- 
derneath the  plain  appearance  of  the  pottery  town, 
there  is  a  spirit  which  has  persisted  in  the  produc- 
tion of  beautiful  things  for  the  best  part  of  two 
centuries,  a  spirit  so  much  in  love  with  delicate 
ware  that  it  calls  an  unsightly  town  by  the  name  of 
an  ancient  and  reputedly  beautiful  one;  and  under- 
neath the  hard  and  fact-ridden  style  of  Mr.  Bennett 
there   is  an  ineradicable  desire  for  romance.     I 

[66] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

said  of  him  once  that  he  fights  the  battles  of  the 
romantic  with  the  weapons  of  the  realist,  and  that 
description  seems  to  me  to  be  strictly  accurate. 
Mr.  Bennett  mingles,  even  in  his  Christian  names, 
the  gritty  and  the  graceful  in  a  way  that  is  sin- 
gularly characteristic  of  the  people  of  his  district. 
"Enoch  Arnold  Bennett"  is  a  combination  of  names 
not  easily  imagined,  but  it  is  not  more  unusual 
than  the  combination  of  Etruria  and  Staffordshire, 
of  lovely  ceramics  and  "the  Five  Towns."  Mr. 
Bennett  has  many  times  been  charged  with  addic- 
tion to  dusty  realism,  a  dull  love  of  facts.  His 
critics  say  of  him,  after  reading  such  a  book  as 
"Your  United  States,"  that  he  must  have  spent  his 
time  on  the  liner  in  which  he  went  to  America  in 
counting  the  rivets  in  her  plates  for  the  sheer  love 
of  counting  them,  and  they  conclude  that  he  is 
a  materialist  because  of  his  interest  in  numbers 
and  in  things.  They  even  complain  of  him  that  he 
is  infatuated  with  largeness,  just  as  Queen  Vic- 
toria was,  and  that  he  imagines  a  thing  to  be 
good  when  it  is  merely  big.  This  is  undiscerning 
criticism.  It  is  as  if  a  child  were  charged  with  be- 
ing a  disciple  of  Haeckel  because  it  thinks  that  ten 
things  are  more  wonderful  than  one  thing.     We 

[67] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

may  think  that  Mr.  Bennett  is  a  fact-ridden  modern, 
incapable  of  romance,  because  he  inordinately  ad- 
mires electricity,  but  to  do  so  is  to  announce  our- 
selves as  dunderheads  for  not  discovering  that  his 
love  of  electricity  is  the  Romantic's  love  of  the 
Magic  Lamp!     How  easily  most  of  us  are  dis- 
suaded from  our  faith  in  romantic  things!     We 
are  in  ecstasies  when  we  hear  of  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi  preaching  to  the  fishes  and  the  birds  and 
addressing  them    as   little    brothers,   but   we    are 
horribly  shocked  and  humiliated  when  Mr.  Ber- 
nard Shaw  makes  the  mad  priest  in  "John  Bull's 
Other  Island"  speak  of  a  pig  as  our  little  brother! 
There  is  prettiness  in  the  community  of  men  and 
birds,  even  of  men  and  the  smaller  fish,  but  pigs — 
pork!    !  We  find  romance  in  the  spectacle  of  a 
man    rubbing    a    dirty    lantern    with    his    fingers 
in  order  to  summon  up  a  serving  genie,  but  can- 
not perceive  the  greater  romance  found  by  Mr. 
Bennett  in  the  spectacle  of  a  man  pressing  a  switch 
and  illuminating  a  room  with  power  drawn  by  wires 
from   a   station   many  miles   away!     We  are  en- 
chanted with  the  thought  of  transport  on  Magic 
Carpets,  but  unmoved  by  the  thought  that  pres- 
ently great  ships  will  be  guided  into  New  York 

[68] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Harbour,  not  by  pilots,  but  by  means  of  wireless 
telegraphy!  Some  dullards  have  exclaimed  des- 
pairingly of  Mr.  Bennett  because  of  what  they 
called  his  trivial  and  commonplace  interests  as 
revealed  in  that  enthralling  book,  "Things  That 
Have  Interested  Me,"  failing  utterly  to  discern 
that  it  is  his  interest  in  these  things  which  is  so 
infallible  a  sign  of  his  zest  for  life.  Any  one  can 
be  interested  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  but  it  is 
only  a  superbly  romantic  man  who  can  be  absorbed 
in  Tarrytown.  There  is  net  anything  in  the  round 
world,  made  by  God  or  by  man,  which  does  not  in- 
terest Mr.  Bennett.  Familiarity  breeds  contempt 
in  most  of  us,  but  it  does  not  breed  contempt  in  him. 
He  never  gets  used  to  things.  Most  of  us  are  too 
dull  of  mind,  too  destitute  of  imagination  to  feel 
interest  or  astonishment  unless  we  are  abruptly  con- 
fronted with  the  unusual  or  the  violent,  and  our 
capacity  for  romantic  enjoyment  is  limited  and 
soon  exhausted.  We  would  exclaim  with  astonish- 
ment on  beholding  an  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius 
for  the  first  time,  but  we  would  exclaim  rather  less 
on  perceiving  the  ninety-ninth  eruption.  Mr.  Ben- 
nett would  experience  as  much  excitement  on  the 
ninety-ninth  occasion   as   he  would  on  the  first. 

[69] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

Nothing  less  than  an  earthquake  is  necessary  to  stir 
some  of  us,  but  Mr.  Bennett  can  be  stirred  by  the 
sight  of  a  taxicab.  The  genesis  of  "The  Old 
Wives'  Tale,"  as  described  in  the  preface  to  one  of 
the  later  editions,  is  a  clear  illustration  of  his  ro- 
mantic possession: 

In  the  autumn  of  1903  [he  writes],  I  used  to  dine 
frequently  in  a  restaurant  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy,  Paris. 
Here  were,  among  .others,  two  waitresses  that  attracted 
my  attention.  One  was  a  beautiful,  pale  young  girl,  to 
whom  I  never  spoke,  for  she  was  employed  far  away 
from  the  table  I  affected.  The  other,  a  stout,  middle- 
aged,  managing  Breton  woman,  had  sole  command  over 
my  table  and  me,  and  gradually  she  began  to  assume 
such  a  maternal  tone  towards  me  that  I  saw  I  should 
be  compelled  to  leave  that  restaurant.  If  I  was  absent 
for  a  couple  of  nights  running  she  would  reproach  me 
sharply:  "What!  you  are  unfaithful  to  me?"  Once 
when  I  complained  about  some  French  beans,  she  in- 
formed me  roundly  that  "French  beans  were  a  subject 
which  I  did  not  understand.  ..." 

I  break  the  quotation  here  to  exclaim  at  the 
obtuseness  of  that  Breton  woman  who,  in  the  course 
of  her  management  of  Mr.  Bennett,  failed  to  dis- 
cover that  he  loves  to  regard  himself  as  an  au- 
thority on  such  matters  as  French  beans.     There 

[70] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

is  a  kind  of  romantic  pride  which  makes  some 
men  believe  that  they  know  the  one  place  in  a 
city  where  the  best  brand  of  a  particular  article 
is  to  be  purchased.  Mr.  Bennett  has  that  pride. 
The  heaviness  of  the  IBreton's  blow  to  it  can  be 
imagined  after  reading  the  next  sentence  in  the 
passage  from  which  I  am  making  the  quotation: 

I  then  decided  to  be  eternally  unfaithful  to  her,  and  I 
abandoned  the  restaurant.  A  few  nights  before  the  final 
parting  an  old  woman  came  into  the  restaurant  to  dine. 
She  was  fat,  shapeless,  ugly  and  grotesque.  She  had  a 
ridiculous  voice  and  ridiculous  gestures.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  she  lived  alone,  and  that  in  the  long  lapse  of 
years  she  had  developed  the  kind  of  peculiarity  which 
induces  guffaws  among  the  thoughtless.  She  was  bur- 
dened wi'th  a  lot  of  small  parcels  which  she  kept  drop- 
ping. She  chose  one  seat;  and  then,  not  liking  it,  chose 
another;  and  then  another.  In  a  few  moments  she  had 
the  whole  restaurant  laughing  at  her.  That  my  middle- 
aged  Breton  should  laugh  was  indifferent  to  me,  but  I 
was  pained  to  see  a  coarse  grimace  of  giggling  on  the 
pale  face  of  the  beautiful  young  waitress  to  whom  I 
had  never  spoken.  I  reflected,  concerning  the  grotesque 
diner:  This  woman  was  once  young,  slim,  perhaps 
beautiful;  certainly  free  from  these  ridiculous  manner- 
isms. Very  probably  she  is  unconscious  of  her  singu- 
larities.    Her  case  is  a  tragedy.     One  ought  to  be  able 

[71] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

to  make  a  heartrending  novel  out  of  the  history  of  a 
woman  such  as  she.  Every  stout,  ageing  woman  is  not 
grotesque — far  from  it! — but  there  is  an  extreme  pathos 
in  the  mere  fact  that  every  stout,  ageing  woman  was  once 
a  young  girl  with  the  unique  charm  of  youth  in  her  form 
and  movements  and  in  her  mind.  And  the  fact  that  the 
change  from  the  young  girl  to  the  stout,  ageing  woman 
is  made  up  of  an  infinite  number  of  infinitesimal 
changes,  each  unperceived  by  her,  only  intensifies  the 
pathos.  It  was  at  that  instant  that  I  was  visited  by  the 
idea  of  writing  the  book  which  ultimately  became  "The 
Old  Wives'  Tale."  .  .  . 

Ill 

In  that  passage  there  is  revealed  much,  I  think, 
of  Mr.  Bennett's  character  and  spirit.  He  dis- 
likes the  sensation  of  being  managed  because  he 
likes  the  sensation  of  managing.  The  Breton 
woman  could  have  won  him  to  faithful  service  for 
ever  if  she  had  deferred  to  him  in  the  matter  of 
French  beans,  and  who  knows  what  tricks  of  du- 
plicity she  could  have  played  upon  him  had  she 
stooped  to  guile?  But  she  wounded  him  in  his 
pride  when  she  bluntly  told  him  that  her  judg- 
ment on  beans  was  sounder  than  his,  and  thus 
lost  the  custom  of  the  most  interesting  of  her 

[72] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

diners.  The  first  fact,  therefore,  that  one  dis- 
covers in  this  passage  is  that  Mr.  Bennett  has  a 
profound  respect  for  his  own  opinion:  he  feels 
pretty  sure  of  himself.  This  may  be  considered 
to  be  a  sign  of  conceit,  but  that  consideration  is 
not  necessarily  true.  It  could  only  be  a  sign  of 
conceit  if  Mr.  Bennett's  respect  for  his  own  opin- 
ion were  misplaced,  and  there  is  nothing  in  his 
record  to  show  that  it  is  misplaced.  There  is, 
on  the  contrary,  much  to  show  that  it  is  placed 
with  the  utmost  propriety.  He  has  done  many  of 
the  things  which  he  said  he  would  do,  and  has  done 
them  exceedingly  well.  If  all  of  us  could  have 
faith  in  ourselves  with  as  much  justification  as 
Mr.  Bennett  has  faith  in  himself,  we  would  do 
well  to  practice  our  faith  with  fervour.  The  second 
fact  about  Mr.  Bennett  which  is  revealed  by  this 
passage  is  the  romantic  nature  of  him,  but  before 
I  discuss  it,  I  wish  to  point  out  a  third  and  minor 
fact  which  is  something  of  a  flaw  in  him,  not  an 
important  flaw,  but  one  which  must  be  remembered 
by  his  admirers.  It  is  his  occasional  tendency  to 
let  his  romanticism  degenerate  into  sentimentality. 
Observe  how  he  seems  to  have  romanced  about  the 
pale  and  beautiful  waitress  to  whom  he  never 

[73] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

spoke,  how  he  assumes  that  because  she  is  beautiful 
she  must  also  be  generous  and  sympathetic  and 
kindly,  with  what  dismay  he  discovers  that,  just  as 
a  man  can  smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain,  so  a 
woman  can  be  pale  and  beautiful,  and  yet  be  as 
cruel  or  lacking  in  perception  as  the  ruddiest  and 
least  lovely  of  her  sex.  He  declares,  indeed,  that 
he  quitted  the  restaurant  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy  be- 
cause of  the  insolence  of  the  Breton  woman  who 
disputed  his  authority  on  beans,  but  may  he  not 
be  deceiving  himself,  may  he  not  in  fact  have 
quitted  that  place  because  his  illusion  about  the 
beautiful,  pale  young  waitress  was  shattered  by  her 
coarse  grimaces,  her  unkindly  giggles?  After  all, 
it  is  easy  enough  to  live  with  those  who  will  not 
accept  our  estimate  of  ourselves,  but  how  hard  it 
is  to  live  with  lost  beliefs.  One  of  the  most  pain- 
ful things  about  shell-shock  cases  resulting  in  men- 
tal derangement  is  that  the  patient  seems  to  loathe 
most  those  whom  he  formerly  loved  most,  and  here 
in  England  many  of  us  know  of  pitiful  women  who 
dare  not  go  to  see  their  unbalanced  husbands  be- 
cause the  mere  sight  of  them  throws  the  unhappy 
men  into  paroxysms  of  rage  and  anguish!  .  .  . 
But    it    is    when    we    come    to    consider    Mr. 

[74] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

Bennett's  attitude  towards  the  foolish  old  woman 
who  changed  her  seat  and  dropped  her  parcels  so 
often  in  the  restaurant  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy  that 
we  discover  his  chief  characteristic.  If  he  were 
the  fact-ridden  realist  that  some  of  his  critics 
pronounce  him  to  be,  he  could  not  possibly  have 
perceived  in  that  old  woman,  "fat,  shapeless,  ugly 
and  grotesque,"  the  lineaments  of  a  girl,  "young, 
slim,  perhaps  beautiful;  certainly  free  from  these 
ridiculous  mannerisms."  A  fact-ridden  realist 
might  not  have  joined  in  the  laughter  of  the 
Breton  woman  and  the  giggling  pale  waitress,  but 
he  would  have  judged  the  old  woman  with  harsh 
contempt,  more  intolerable  even  than  mocking 
laughter,  and  he  would  have  turned  away  from 
her  in  irritation  and  disgust  because  of  her  ineffi- 
ciency, her  clumsiness,  her  indecision,  her  displeas- 
ing exterior.  At  best,  he  would  have  seen  her 
solely  as  a  fat,  ugly  and  grotesque  person  who 
had  always  been  incompetent,  fat,  ugly  and  gro- 
tesque. But  Mr.  Bennett,  incorrigibly  romantic, 
regarding  her  closely  and  with  kindliness,  insists 
that  beneath  the  hulk  of  her  body  there  is  a  soul, 
that  the  too,  too  solid  flesh  once  wore  "the 
feature  of  blown  youth,"  even  as  Ophelia  found 

[75] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

it  in  Hamlet!  She  may  not  be  beautiful  now,  he 
tells  himself,  but  how  beautiful  may  she  not  once 
have  been.  That  is  the  spirit  of  romance.  It  is 
a  certain  sign  of  the  romantic  in  a  man  that  he 
will  not  permit  himself  to  be  bluffed  by  appear- 
ances when  appearances  are  bad,  although  he  may 
often  be  bluffed  by  them  when  they  are  good. 
Mr.  Bennett  was  not  deceived  by  the  old  woman's 
looks,  but  he  was  terribly  deceived  by  the  looks 
of  the  pale,  young  waitress,  and  it  is  true  of  him, 
I  think,  that  he  is  very  easily  deceived  by  youth, 
to  which  he  is  uncommonly  generous.  Observe 
how  he  shows  his  willingness  to  be  deceived  by 
youth  in  the  passage  which  I  have  quoted.  He 
tells  himself  that  the  old  woman  was  once  "young, 
slim,  perhaps  beautiful,"  which  is  likely  enough, 
but  he  goes  on,  not  romantically,  but  sentiment- 
ally, to  add,  that  she  was  "certainly  free  from  these 
ridiculous  mannerisms."  Now,  there  is  no  war- 
rant in  human  experience  for  such  an  assumption. 
I  am  prepared  to  believe  that  an  old  woman,  "fat, 
shapeless,  ugly  and  grotesque"  was  once  "slim, 
perhaps  beautiful,"  but  I  am  not  prepared  to  be- 
lieve that  an  indecisive,  footling  old  woman  was, 
in  her  girlhood,   any  other  than   indecisive   and 

[76] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

footling.  We  do  not  change  our  natures  to  that 
extent  as  we  grow  older  unless  we  lose  our  wits 
or  suffer  gravely  in  health,  and  the  tragedy  of  old 
age  is  that  habits  and  mannerisms  which  are 
charming  and  attractive  in  youth  are  merely  silly 
and  annoying  in  age.  We  are  amused  by  the 
violent  opinions  of  a  clever  young  man  of  twenty, 
inclined  even  to  applaud  him  for  holding  them 
because  they  are  significant  of  an  active  and  de- 
veloping mind,  but  they  are  less  amusing  to  us  and 
win  less  applause  if  they  are  still  being  expressed 
by  him  when  he  is  thirty.  We  cease  altogether 
to  applaud  or  be  amused  when  we  hear  him  still 
at  them  when  he  is  forty.  We  no  longer  describe 
him  as  a  clever  young  man,  but  a  damned  fool. 
No  one  has  any  right  to  be  a  clever  young  man  all 
his  life.  The  law  should  forbid  any  one  to  be  a 
clever  young  man  after  the  age  of  twenty-seven. 
The  world  is  entitled  to  demand  that  its  clever 
young  men  shall  grow  up  and  achieve  some  sort 
of  sanity  and  right  judgment  by  the  age  of  thirty, 
and  if  they  refuse  to  grow  up,  then  they  are  not 
free  to  complain  if  the  world  revises  its  judg- 
ment on  them  and  inexorably  thrusts  them  from 
its   regard.     Mr.   Bennett's   old  woman  dropped 

[77] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

her  parcels  and  changed  her  seat  just  as  frequently 
in  her  youth  as  she  did  on  that  evening  when  he 
saw  her  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy,  but  she  was  young 
and  perhaps  pretty  then,  and  people  forgave  her 
for  her  footling  ways  because  of  her  youthfulness 
and  in  the  hope  that  someday  she  would  acquire 
steadiness  of  character  and  control  over  her  pack- 
ages. I  think  I  can  give  a  fairly  accurate  de- 
scription of  that  old  woman  when  she  was  a  girl. 
She  was  always  late  for  everything,  but  her  de- 
mure ways  and  a  sort  of  foal-like  clumsiness  about 
her  made  men  willing  to  wait  and  be  gracious 
about  it.  She  always  remembered  at  the  last 
moment  nineteen  different  things  which  she  had 
forgotten  to  do,  which  must  immediately  be  done, 
which  inevitably  caused  greater  delay.  She  could 
never  find  her  railway  ticket  when  the  inspector 
came  round  to  examine  it  and  frequently  held  up 
trains  while  every  one  in  her  carriage  hunted  high 
and  low  for  it.  She  persistently  dropped  her 
gloves,  her  handkerchief  a«nd  her  vanity-bag  or  left 
them  behind  her  wherever  she  went.  She  never 
went  out  of  doors  without  losing  something.  She 
never  had  any  small  change,  and  invariably  tend- 
ered a  ten-dollar  bill,  when  buying  a  ten-cent  news- 

[78] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

paper,  in  the  fond  belief  that  the  clerk  at  the  news 
stand  or  even  the  boy  in  the  street  was  certain  to 
have  plenty  of  change  and  be  all  too  eager  to 
oblige  her.  She  always  got  on  to  the  wrong  train 
or  trolley-car  and  did  not  discover  her  mistake 
until  too  late  to  dismount  from  it!  .  .  .  But 
she  succeeded  in  putting  over  that  sort  of  fatuous 
behaviour  on  the  strength  of  her  youth  and  pretti- 
ness;  and  men,  who  would  go  raving  mad  if  they 
had  to  live  with  a  middle-aged  or  elderly  woman 
of  such  habits,  readily  excused  her  imbecilities 
because  the'y  were  those  of  youth. 

I  wondered  often,  when  I  was  in  America,  why 
I  saw  so  many  old  or  middle-aged  husbands  with 
girl-wives.  People  told  me  that  the  cost  of  living 
is  so  high  in  America  that  young  men  cannot  afford 
to  marry  young  girls,  but  must  either  marry  older 
and  richer  women  or  refrain  from  marriage  until 
they  are  middle-aged.  Young  women,  so  I  was 
told,  must  marry  the  elderly  and  the  bald,  the  slack 
and  the  flabby  because,  otherwise,  they  cannot 
hope  for  a  good  time  until  they  are  no  longer  of  an 
age  to  enjoy  it.  I  do  not  much  esteem  young 
women  who  refuse  the  great  adventure  of  marriage 
with  young,  poor  men  in  order  that  they  may  have 

.[79] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

a  good  time  with  unenthusiastic,  tamed  and  middle- 
aged  men,  especially  when  I  remember  that  a 
good  time  in  such  circumstances  means  only  a 
fatly  comfortable  one,  being  well-fed,  well-housed 
and  well-clothed  without  ever  having  had  the  fun 
of  fighting  for  such  comforts.  But  I  am  not  en- 
tirely convinced  by  the  arguments  which  were  put 
to  me  in  explanation  of  this  singular  and  unnatural 
conjunction  of  the  young  and  the  middle-aged. 
There  may  be  truth  in  the  statement  that  American 
girls  marry  elderly  men  for  the  comfort  they 
receive,  but  I  doubt  whether  the  elderly  men 
marry  for  that  reason.  I  am  very  certain  that 
such  marriages  are  made  because  the  men  are 
romantic  and  will  not  believe  that  the  young  girl's 
"charming  ways"  will  not  be  retained  by  her  when 
she  is  no  longer  young.  The  plain  and  undeniable 
fact  is  that  elderly  men  marry  girls  because  they 
cannot  believe  that  a  girl  who  has  foolish  habits 
will  not  cease  to  have  them  when  she  is  older.  The 
romantic  is  a  man  who  is  everlastingly  hoping  for 
the  best,  everlastingly  striving  to  obtain  the  best. 
A  romantic  realist  is  a  man  who,  while  striving 
for  the  best,  knows  that  he  may  only  obtain  the 
worst.     The  sentimentalist  is  a  man  who  removes 

[80] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

himself  from  the  region  of  reality  and  refuses  to 
admit  that  there  is  a  worst,  who  insists  that  all  is 
for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds. 
Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  is  a  romantic  realist,  with  a 
slight  tendency  towards  sentimental  ism. 


IV 


His  romantic  realism  seems  to  plunge  desper- 
ately into  sentimentalism  when  he  contemplates 
very  old  age  and  death.  Dr.  Johnson  had  a  strange 
horror  of  death,  "so  much  so,  Sir,"  as  he  said  to 
Boswell,  "that  the  whole  of  life  is  but  keeping  away 
the  thoughts  of  it."  But  he  achieved  quietness 
of  mind  when  his  end  came  and  his  last  recorded 
words  were  of  a  benignant  character.  "God  bless 
you,  my  dear!"  he  said  to  Miss  Morris,  forbidden 
by  his  faithful  negro  servant,  Francis,  to  come 
nearer  to  his  bed  than  the  outer  room.  Mr. 
Bennett  seldom,  if  ever,  permits  his  very  old  people 
to  die  placidly.  Their  disappointments  press 
hardly  upon  them,  if  they  are  not  prevented  from 
remembering  them  by  senility  or  gross  disease. 
Paralysis  claims  many  of  them.  Age  does  not 
beautify  them  nor  bring  peace  to  them,  nor  do 

[81] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

they  face  their  end  with  undiminished  heads.  He 
is  remarkably  consistent  in  this  view  of  old  age 
and  death,  and  perhaps  it  is  natural  that  he  should 
regard  it  so  gloomily  when  one  remembers  how 
completely  he  is  enthralled  by  youth.  But  his 
view  is  an  unbalanced  one. 

Old  age  is  not  always  graceless  and  crabbed 
and  unlovely.  Such  an  old  man  as  Mr.  Thomas 
Hardy  has  a  grace  and  quietness  and  courage  dis- 
coverable only  in  those  who  have  endured  many 
things  but  have  not  been  conquered  by  them.  Mr. 
Bennett,  however,  looks  upon  age  as  a  calamity 
which  must,  indeed,  happen  to  all  of  us,  if  we  live 
long  enough,  but  cannot  possibly  be  mitigated. 

He  is  able  to  detect  the  "young,  slim,  perhaps 
beautiful"  girl  in  the  "fat,  shapeless,  ugly  and 
grotesque"  old  woman,  but  he  cannot  so  easily 
detect  the  gracious  old  man  or  woman  in  the  boy 
and  girl.  I  am  oppressed  sometimes  by  the 
thought  that  if  Mr.  Bennett  had  seen  the  "young, 
slim,  perhaps  beautiful"  girl,  his  romantic  nature 
would  have  let  him  down,  yielding  place  to  his 
cynicism,  and  he  would  have  detected  the  coming 
wrinkles  on  her  brow,  would  have  seen  that  her 
eyes  would  grow  dull,  might  even  have  pointed 

[82] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

out  her  tendency  to  obesity.  "Of  course,  I 
should!"  Mr.  Bennett  may  retort,  "for  I  am  a 
realist  as  well  as  a  romantic,  and  in  this  case,  I 
should  have  been  right!"  And  so  he  would,  but 
the  trouble  is  that,  while  Mr.  Bennett  romantically 
and  rightly  sees  the  slim,  perhaps  beautiful  girl 
in  the  fat  old  woman,  he  always  realistically  and 
wrongly  sees  the  fat  old  woman  in  the  slim  young 
girl!  I  think  that  the  spirit  of  "the  Five  Towns" 
is  entirely  responsible  for  the  fact  that  Mr.  Bennett 
never  sees  beauty  in  age.  It  is  a  harsh,  acquisi- 
tive spirit,  busy  principally  in  the  accumulation 
of  material  things  (despite  the  fact  that  it  pro- 
duces lovely  pottery)  and  inclined  to  measure  a 
man's  worth  by  the  amount  of  his  fortune.  The 
leisurely  and  gracious  things  of  life  are  not  the 
immediate  or  even  the  ultimate  concerns  of  life  in 
"the  Potteries,"  and  old  age  is  likely,  in  such 
places,  to  be  harsh  and  acquisitive.  When  men 
and  women,  who  have  spent  their  activities  en- 
tirely in  money-making,  reach  the  age  at  which 
they  possess  much  money  but  are  no  longer  able 
to  employ  themselves  in  its  acquisition,  they  be- 
come crabbed,  unlovely,  mean,  for  they  have  no 
resources.     You    cannot    derive    pleasure    from 

[83] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

literature  or  music  or  painting  or  any  other  art 
when  you  bring  to  its  consideration  only  the  fag- 
end  of  your  life.  One  has  seen  men  who  were 
notorious  among  their  neighbours  for  their  hard 
work — always  engaged  in  their  employment  from 
early  morning  until  late  night — seldom,  if  ever, 
resting  or  taking  holiday.  One  has  seen  these 
men,  after  they  have  retired  from  business,  so 
helpless  without  their  work  to  occupy  their  minds 
that  they  steadily  declined  into  a  condition  of 
misery  which  brought  about  premature  death! 
They  lived  for  one  thing,  and  when  that  thing  was 
no  longer  available  for  them,  they  perished  be- 
cause they  had  no  other  resources  and  it  was  too 
late  to  acquire  any!  Mr.  Bennett  must  have  seen 
such  men  many  times  during  his  early  years 
in  "the  Five  Towns"  and  the  pitiful  spectacle  so 
impressed  his  mind  that  old  age  has  become  to  him 
a  terrifying  thing,  a  complete  debacle  of  the  brain 
and  energies.  This  life,  this  youth,  is  so  wonder* 
ful,  so  full  of  romantic  possibilties,  that  age  and 
death  seem  to  him  merely  obscene  interruptions 
of  an  enthralling  spectacle. 


[84] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 


V 


Once  only,  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  did  he  make 
a  poem.  It  was  published  in  The  English  Review 
in  the  brave  days  when  that  magazine  was  edited 
by  Mr.  Ford  Madox  Hueffer,  and  since  it  is  sing- 
ularly characteristic,  as  a  poem  ought  to  be,  of  its 
author's  outlook  on  life,  I  quote  it  here  in  full. 
But  first  I  must  affirm  my  belief  that  The  English 
Review,  under  the  editorship  of  Mr.  Hueffer,  was 
the  greatest  magazine  that  this  world  has  ever 
known.  That  is  a  tremendous  title  to  claim  for 
any  magazine,  but  I  doubt  whether  any  one,  famil- 
iar with  great  magazines,  will  seriously  dispute 
it.  The  title  of  Mr.  Bennett's  poem  is  "Town  and 
Country."     Here  it  is: 

God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town. 
And  so — man  made  the  doctor,  God  the  clown; 
God  made  the  mountain,  and  the  ants  their  hill, 
Where  grinding  servitudes  each  day  fulfil. 
God  doubtless  made  the  flowers,  while  in  the  hive 
Unnatural  bees  against  their  passions  strive. 
God  made  the  jackass  and  the  bounding  flea; 
I  render  thanks  to  God  that  man  made  me. 
Let  those  who  recognize  God's  shaping  power 

[85] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

Here  but  not  there,  in  tree  but  not  in  tower, 

In  lane  and  field,  but  not  in  street  and  square, 

And  in  man's  work  see  nothing  that  is  fair — 

Bestir  their  feeble  fancy  to  the  old 

Conception  of  a  "country"  made  by  God; 

Where  birds  perceive  the  wickedness  of  strife 

Against  the  winds,  and  lead  the  simple  life 

Nestless   on   God's  own  twigs;    and  squirrels,  free 

From  carking  care,  exist  through  February 

On  nuts  that  God  has  stored.     Let  them  agree 

To  leave  the  fields  to  God  for  just  a  year, 

And  then  of  God's  own  harvest  make  good  cheer. 

If  one  were  a  sentimentalist,  one  could  describe 
that  poem  as  a  sign  of  a  blankly  materialistic 
mind,  with  a  turn  for  blasphemy,  but  if  one  is  what 
one  ought  to  be,  a  romantic  with  a  sense  of  reality, 
it  will  appear  to  be  a  confession  of  faith  in  God 
and  man. 


VI 


Mr.  Bennett,  of  all  the  men  of  letters  with  whom 
I  am  acquainted,  not  even  excluding  Mr.  Shaw, 
is  the  most  generous  and  kindly  to  young  people. 
Mr.  Wells  likes  young  people,  but  his  interest 
in  them  is  curiously  impersonal.     He  likes  youth 

[86] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

in  a  lump,  so  to  speak,  rather  than  youth  in  the 
individual,  just  as  he  seems  to  love  mankind  more 
than  he  likes  any  man.  But  Mr.  Bennett  likes 
you,  the  youth,  personally.  He  is  happier  on  the 
whole  with  young  people  than  he  is  with  their  el- 
ders, and  he  assiduously  seeks  their  society.  He  is 
amused  by  their  extravagances,  but  not  to  the  ex- 
tent of  sneering  at  them.  He  likes  youth  to  be 
dandiacal,  to  have  an  air,  to  be  arrogant,  but  not 
to  be  ill-bred  or  pretentious  or  third-rate.  In 
spite  of  his  notable  kindness,  he  can  be  merciless 
to  humbugs,  and  stories  are  told  of  devastating 
things  said  by  him  to  presumptuous  persons  and 
fools.  The  blunt  speech  of  "the  Five  Towns" 
is  native  to  his  tongue,  and  he  passes  judgment 
without  mincing  his  words.  He  has  a  dry  sort 
of  witwhich  is  remarkably  helped  by  a  slight 
hesitation  in  his  speech,  and  his  general  conver- 
sation, without  being  markedly  distinguished,  is 
C entertaining  and  agreeable  in  a  way  that  is  very 
elusive  when  put  upon  paper.  It  is  natural, 
perhaps,  that  a  man  who  loves  youth  so  much  as 
he  does  should  have  a  more  potent  sense  of  the 
present  and  of  the  future  than  of  the  past,  and 
this   accounts   for   the   fact   that   his   books   and 

[87] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

pictures  are  chiefly  modern.  I  imagine  that  he 
has  a  greater  number  of  books  and  pictures  by 
young  authors  and  painters  than  any  other  man 
of  his  calibre  in  England.  He  loves  music,  but 
is  not  "highbrow"  about  it,  and  he  has  a  passion 
for  dancing  which  threatens  now  to  keep  him 
jigging  through  ballrooms  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
He  paints  quite  charming  water-colour  pictures, 
and  is  so  fond  of  the  sea  that  the  surest  way  in 
which  any  one  can  lose  his  friendship  is  to  accom- 
pany him  for  a  trip  on  his  yacht  and  be  sea-sick 
during  it!  He  is  a  keen  man  of  business,  and  he 
is  full  of  contempt  for  the  rather  sloppy-minded 
man  of  letters  who  allows  himself  to  be  worsted 
in  a  bargain.  Most  men  of  quality  are  lonely  men, 
oddly  isolated  in  spirit,  and  Mr.  Bennett  is  not 
an  exception  to  the  rule,  but  more  than  his  com- 
peers, I  think,  he  is  a  companionable  person  in 
a  small  group,  chiefly  because  of  that  romantic 
interest  he  has  in  all  things,  animate  and  inani- 
mate. He  has  a  wider  knowledge  of  books  than 
most  men  of  letters.  Most  men  of  letters,  indeed, 
are  remarkably  ignorant  of  books.  And  he  has 
the  courage,  the  supreme  courage,  to  do  what 
no  other  literary  man  I  have  ever  met  has  the 

[88] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

courage  to  do:  he  keeps  a  gramophone.  He  likes 
the  savor  of  life,  and  life  for  him  includes  the 
pictures  of  Corot  and  the  gramophone  and  French 
poetry  and  the  novels  of  George  Moore  and  news- 
papers and  motor-cars  and  Balzac  and  Bernard 
Shaw  and  the  right  brand  of  French  beans.  How 
can  such  a  man  help  being  romantic! 


[89] 


G.  K.  CHESTERTON 


There  is  a  legend,  much  beholden  to  Shake- 
speare, that  learning  and  leanness  are  akin  to  each 
other,  while  dull  wits  flourish  in  company  with 
obesity.  The  curious  submission  sometimes  made 
by  Shakespeare  to  common  prejudices  and  igno- 
rance, glorified  by  the  name  of  legend,  caused 
him  too  often  to  forget  the  obligation  of  the  aristo- 
crat to  think  for  himself,  and  remember  only  to 
think  with  the  mob;  and  the  singular  fact  about  this 
forgetfulness  of  his  is  that  when  he  chose  to  think 
with  the  mob,  he  nearly  always  did  so  when  the 
the  mob  was  in  the  wrong.  He  preferred  the  judg- 
ment of  the  street  to  the  judgment  of  informed 
minds  when  he  wrote  "Richard  the  Third,"  and  al- 
lowed himself  to  malign  that  excellent  and  most 
capable  prince  and  monarch.  Richard  was  one  of 
the  ablest  of  the  kings  of  England,  but  Shake- 
speare,   forgetting    his    obligations    to    his    own 

[90] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

genius,  portrays  him  as  a  pervert  with  a  mania 
for  blood.  He  yields  to  the  common  view  in  his 
references  to  fat  men.  Falstaff  is  fat  and  flighty 
and  a  coward,  a  drunkard,  a  braggart  and  a  mis- 
leader  of  young  princes,  although  the  prototype 
of  Sir  John  was  himself  a  man  of  known  courage. 
Cassius  was  deemed  to  think  too  much  because 
he  had  a  lean  and  hungry  look.  Julius  Caesar 
desired  the  society  of  fat  men  who,  presumably, 
indulged  but  seldom  in  thought  and  never  in  any 
that  could  be  called  dangerous.  Fat  men  are  en- 
dowed with  but  one  tolerable  virtue:  that  of  good 
nature;  and  if  any  fat  men  ever  enters  heaven, 
it  will  be  because  of  his  equable  temper  and  in 
spite  of  his  corpulence. 

Mr.  Chesterton  is  a  fat  man.  There  is  a  rumour 
in  England  that  many  Americans  felt  they  had 
been  defrauded  of  their  money  when  they  went  to 
hear  him  lecture  lately  because  he  was  hardly 
so  fat  as  they  had  been  led  to  believe!  He  cer- 
tainly is  not  so  bulky  now,  because  of  a  serious 
illness,  as  he  was  when  I  first  knew  him,  but  in 
those  days  he  was  undeniably  an  enormous  man. 
And  in  himself  he  is  a  complete  refutation  of  the 
legend  that  fat  men  are  dull  men.     Dr.  Johnson 

[91] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

was  another  fat  man  whose  large  flesh  covered  a 
large  intellect.  Dr.  Johnson,  indeed,  was  so  able  a 
man  that,  in  spite  of  an  incorrigibly  lazy  character, 
which  kept  him  abed  of  mornings  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  improving  the  shining  hour,  he  com- 
piled a  dictionary  with  little  assistance  which,  so 
Frenchmen  said,  would  have  engaged  the  labours  of 
forty  French  scholars  for  a  long  time. 

These  legends  about  men  of  wit  and  dull  men 
need  to  be  revised.  There  have  been  as  many  fat 
men  of  genius  as  there  have  been  lean  men  of 
genius.  There  have  been  as  many  epicurean 
geniuses  as  there  have  been  ascetic  geniuses.  My 
experience  is  that  men  of  great  mental  energy  are 
fonder  of  their  food  than  many  men  with  torpid 
minds;  and  some  of  the  ablest  men  I  know  are 
excessively  addicted  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
Mr.  Shaw  is  a  fastidious  feeder,  with  odd  likes  and 
dislikes,  but  no  one  could  say  that  he  is  indif- 
ferent to  what  he  eats.  It  is,  I  think,  an  ironic 
commentary  on  the  legend  that  fat  men  are  lack- 
ing in  cleverness,  that  much  the  cleverest  of  those 
who  oppose  the  opinions  of  the  lean  Mr.  Shaw  is 
the  fat  Mr.  Chesterton. 

Mr.  Chesterton,  was  sent  into  the  world  by  an 

[92] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

All-Just  God  for  the  exclusive  purpose  of  saying 
the  opposite  to  Mr.  Shaw.  With  the  most  com- 
plimentary intention  I  say  that  Mr.  Chesterton's  job 
in  the  world  is,  when  Mr.  Shaw  speaks,  to  reply, 
"On  the  contrary!  .  .  ."  He  has  to  restore  the 
balance  which  Mr.  Shaw  very  vigorously  disturbs. 
Mr.  Chesterton  is  considerably  younger  than  Mr. 
Shaw,  much  younger  than  most  people,  on  seeing 
him,  imagine  him  to  be.  He  was  born  in  London 
in  1874.  His  book  on  Browning  was  published 
when  he  was  twenty-nine,  and  "The  Napoleon  of 
Notting  Hill"  when  he  was  thirty.  The  bulk  of  his 
work,  and  certainly  the  best  of  it,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  "Short  History  of  England,"  was  pub- 
lished before  he  was  forty.  The  bulk,  and  certainly 
the  best,  of  Mr.  Shaw's  work  was  published  after  he 
had  passed  his  fortieth  year.  A  critic  comparing 
the  two  writers  ought  to  remember  that  Mr.  Shaw's 
work  is  mainly  that  of  a  mature  man,  whereas 
that  of  Mr.  Chesterton  is  mainly  the  work  of  a 
young  man. 


[93] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 
II 

Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton  is  commonly  known  as 
a  writer  of  paradox.  He  is  something  of  a  para- 
dox himself,  for  he  is  half-Scotch,  half-French, 
and  wholly  English.  This  paradox  is  not  any 
more  startling  than  the  fact  that  yellow  and  blue, 
when  mixed  together,  become  green.  England  is 
half-way  between  Scotland  and  France!  He 
handles  paradox  very  skilfully,  but  there  are  times 
when  he  imagines  he  is  making  a  paradox  and  is 
only  making  a  pun;  and  there  are  other  times  when 
he  is  merely  making  nonsense.  He  states  in  a 
book  called  "What's  Wrong  With  the  World"  that 
"the  prime  truth  of  woman,  the  universal  mother" 
is  "that  if  a  thing  is  worth  doing,  it  is  worth  doing 
badly."  That  is  singular  paradox!  I  can  under- 
stand a  prime  truth  which  declares  that  a  thing  is 
worth  doing,  even  if  it  be  done  badly,  but  I  can- 
not understand  a  prime  truth  which  seems  to  make 
a  merit  of  bad  workmanship. 

Elsewhere  in  the  same  book,  he  says  that  "sub- 
mission to  a  weak  man  is  discipline.  Submission 
to  a  strong  man  is  servility."  The  proper  com- 
mentary on  that  paradox  can  only  be  made  by  a 

[94] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

soldier.  I  can  assure  Mr.  Chesterton  that  the  dis- 
cipline of  a  weak  man  is  the  nearest  approach  to 
tyranny  I  know,  and  it  flies  to  pieces  in  times  of 
great  distress.  Your  strong  man  can  hold 
thoroughly  frightened  men  to  their  manhood  with 
a  word  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  but  your  weak 
man  demoralizes  them  with  the  fretful  tyranny 
which  he  calls  strength.  The  submission  of  strong 
men  to  a  weak  man  may  be  called  discipline,  but 
it  would  be  better  named  self-assurance.  But  in 
the  field  itself,  when  authority  and  strength  are 
needed,  that  weak  man  is  quietly  pushed  into  the 
background,  and  the  really  strong  man,  although 
he  may  be  a  private  soldier,  takes  command. 
One  can,  of  course,  pick  holes  in  many  of  Mr. 
Chesterton's  paradoxes  in  that  manner,  but  it  is 
profitless  to  do  so.  Our  work  now  is  to  discover 
what  is  of  value  in  his  doctrine  and  to  describe 
what  is  unsound  in  it. 

Roughly,  one  may  say  that  Mr.  Chesterton 
stands  for  the  common  man  against  the  very  clever 
man.  He  believes  more  in  the  People  than  he 
believes  in  Particular  Persons.  As  he  himself 
would  say,  he  trusts  Man  more  than  he  trusts  any 
man,  a  statement  which  reads  better  than  it  sounds. 

[95] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

He  believes  in  tradition,  even  in  legend,  which  is 
the  wisdom  accumulated  by  Man,  not  out  of  his 
mind  so  much  as  out  of  his  experience.  He  be- 
lieves in  the  institution  of  private  property,  pro- 
vided that  the  property  is  widely  distributed.  In 
other  words,  he  believes  in  what  is  called  Peasant 
Proprietorship.  He  does  not  believe  in  Progress 
as  Mr.  Wells,  for  example,  believes  in  it,  and  he 
will  tell  you  very  emphatically  that  the  common 
man  was  happier  in  the  Middle  Ages  than  he  is 
to-day.  There  are  times  when  it  seems  to  me  that 
Mr.  Chesterton's  "common  man"  is  as  mythical  as 
the  "average  man"  of  the  newspapers  and  the 
"economic  man"  of  the  economists;  and  I  am 
very  dubious  about  the  happiness  of  the  poor 
people  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  would  be  foolish  to 
carry  one's  doctrine  too  far,  but  if  there  is  any- 
thing in  this  theory  of  Man  deriving  wisdom  from 
experience,  surely  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
human  beings,  having  discovered  a  means  of  living 
which  ensures  some  comfort  and  security  to  them, 
will  not  easily  be  deprived  of  it.  Mr.  Chesterton 
asks  us  to  believe  that  the  "common"  man  per- 
mitted the  rich  lord  to  rob  him  of  his  rights  almost 

[96] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF    MY   ELDERS 

in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  he  was  being  robbed 
of  them.  It  is  just  as  probable  that  he  was  ignor- 
ant of  them  because  he  never  had  them. 

Mr.  Chesterton  believes,  too,  in  what  he  calls 
"the  ancient  and  universal  things"  as  against  what 
he  calls  "the  modern  and  specialist  things."  He 
has  invented  a  theory  which  establishes  man  as  the 
great  specialist  and  woman  as  the  great  amateur, 
and  he  would  keep  woman  out  of  the  polling-booth, 
not  because  the  vote  is  too  good  for  her,  but  because 
it  is  not  good  enough.  He  demands  that  the  woman 
shall  stay  in  the  home,  not  for  the  Teutonic  reason 
that  she  is  inferior  to  man  and  must  work  in  a 
narrow  area,  but  for  the  Chestertonic  reason  that 
she  is  capable  of  more  varied  work  than  man  and 
can  only  find  adequate  range  for  her  variety  in  the 
broad  dominions  of  the  home.  "Women  were  not 
kept  at  home,"  he  says,  "in  order  to  keep  them 
narrow;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  kept  home  in 
order  to  keep  them  broad."  The  effort  must  seem 
to  many  persons  to  have  been  a  singularly  unsuc- 
cessful one,  but  Mr.  Chesterton  will  have  none  of 
this  sophistry.  "I  do  not  even  pause  to  deny  that 
woman  was  a  servant;  but  at  least  she  was  a  general 

[97] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

servant,"  he  asserts;  discovering  in  her  "general- 
ness"  a  virtue  where  others  would  discover  only  a 
certainty  of  incompetence  and  muddle. 

If  drudgery  only  means  dreadfully  hard  work,  I  admit 
the  woman  drudges  in  the  home,  as  a  man  might  drudge 
at  the  Cathedral  of  Amiens  or  drudge  behind  a  gun  at 
Trafalgar.  But  if  it  means  that  the  hard  work  is  more 
heavy  because  it  is  trifling,  colorless  and  of  small  import 
to  the  soul,  then,  as  I  say,  I  give  it  up ;  I  do  not  know 
what  the  words  mean.  To  be  Queen  Elizabeth  within  a 
definite  area,  deciding  sales,  banquets,  labors  and  holi- 
days; to  be  Whiteley  within  a  certain  area,  providing 
toys,  boots,  sheets,  cakes  and  books;  to  be  Aristotle 
within  a  certain  area,  teaching  morals,  manners,  theology 
and  hygiene — I  can  understand  how  this  might  exhaust 
the  mind,  but  I  cannot  imagine  how  it  could  narrow  it. 
How  can  it  be  a  large  career  to  tell  other  people's  chil- 
dren about  the  Rule  of  Three,  and  a  small  career  to  tell 
one's  own  children  about  the  universe?  How  can  it  be 
broad  to  be  the  same  thing  to  everyone,  and  narrow  to 
be  everything  to  someone?  No;  a  woman's  function  is 
laborous,  but  because  it  is  gigantic,  not  because  it  is 
minute.  I  will  pity  Mrs.  Jones  for  the  hugeness  of  her 
task;  I  will  never  pity  her  for  its  smallness. 

I  have  quoted  that  extensive  passage  because  it  is 
a  good  example  of  Mr.  Chesterton's  style  and  his 
thought.    It  is  a  mixture  of  soundness  and  unsound- 

[98] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

ness,  in  which  the  two  things  merge  so  impercepti- 
bly that  there  is  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the  one 
from  the  other.  It  is  not  easy  to  see  why  the  sten- 
ographer, travelling  to  an  office  every  morning  at 
the  same  hour  by  the  same  underground  railway, 
and  typing  more  or  less  the  same  sort  of  letter 
for  a  specified  number  of  hours  before  she  returns 
every  evening  by  the  same  underground  railway  to 
the  home  from  which  she  set  out  in  the  morning, 
should  be  more  broad-minded  that  the  woman  who 
stays  at  home  performing  a  variety  of  jobs;  and 
perhaps  Mr.  Chesterton  is  justified  in  his  faith  by 
the  fact  that  the  stenographer  is  most  eager  to  es- 
cape from  the  office  to  the  home  by  the  way  of 
marriage. 

Nevertheless,  I  suspect  that  the  home  is  not  quite 
the  broadening  influence  Mr.  Chesterton  declares  it 
to  be,  and  Mr.  Chesterton  himself  provides  me  with 
the  ground  for  my  suspicion.  To  be  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth within  a  certain  area  may  be  enlarging  for 
the  mind.  To  be  Whiteley  (or  Marshal  Field,  in 
America)  within  a  certain  area  may  be  enlarging 
for  the  mind.  To  be  Aristotle  within  a  certain 
area  may  be  enlarging  for  the  mind.  But  to  be 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  Whiteley  and  Aristotle  within 

[99] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

a  certain  area  is  paralyzing  for  the  mind.  The 
stenographer  who  does  one  thing  every  day,  has 
time  to  think  of  many  things:  the  wife  and  mother 
who  does  many  things  every  day  has  time  to  think 
of  nothing.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  stenographer, 
who  accepts  the  responsibilities  of  marriage  and 
motherhood,  regards  the  drudgery  of  them  as  an 
unparalleled  opportunity  for  exhibiting  her  versa- 
tility; and  I  have  observed  that  the  people  who  are 
most  keen  on  such  "modern  and  specialist  things" 
as  labour-saving  devices,  are  just  those  women  who, 
in  Mr.  Chesterton's  judgment,  should  be  most  re- 
luctant to  accept  them. 


Ill 

His  praise  of  the  "ancient  and  universal  things" 
at  the  expense  of  the  "modern  and  specialist 
things"  leads  him  to  say  that 

If  a  man  found  a  coil  of  rope  in  a  desert  he  could  at 
least  think  of  all  the  things  that  can  be  done  with  a  coil 
of  rope;  and  some  of  them  might  be  practical.  He 
could  tow  a  boat  or  lasso  a  horse.  He  could  play  cat's 
cradle  or  pick  oakum.  He  could  construct  a  rope-ladder 
for  an  eloping  heiress,  or  cord  her  boxes  for  a  travelling 

[100] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

maiden  aunt.  He  could  learn  to  tie  a  bow,  or  he  could 
hang  himself.  Far  otherwise  with  the  unfortunate 
traveller  who  should  find  a  telephone  in  the  desert.  You 
can  telephone  with  a  telephone:  you  cannot  do  anything 
else  with  it. 

He  disparages  the  hot-water  pipe  in  order  to  ex- 
alt the  open  fire.  He  argues  that  "the  ancient  and 
universal  things"  can  be  turned  to  many  uses,  but 
that  the  "modern  and  specialist  things"  are  strictly 
limited  to  one  purpose. 

There  may  be  much  in  his  argument,  though 
his  examples  hardly  support  him,  but  how  much  is 
not  apparent.  Take  the  case  of  the  man  in  the 
desert  who  finds  a  coil  of  rope,  and  compare  him 
with  the  man  in  the  desert  who  finds  a  telephone. 
Mr.  Chesterton  begs  us  to  observe  how  happy  is 
the  former  compared  with  the  latter,  but  is  he  one- 
half  so  happy?  The  absorbing  passion  of  a  man's 
life  in  a  desert  would  be  the  desire  to  get  out  of 
the  desert  as  quickly  as  possible.  How  far  would 
a  rope  help  him  to  realize  his  desire?  He  could 
not  tow  a  boat  or  lasso  a  horse  because  there  would 
not  be  any  water  on  which  to  tow  the  boat  or  any 
horse  to  lasso.  If  there  were  a  horse  to  lasso  it 
would  either  be  wild  and  unrideable  or  private 

[101] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

property.  He  could  play  at  cat's  cradle  with  the 
rope  if  it  were  not  a  rope  at  all — if,  that  is 
to  say  it  were  twine;  and  perhaps  this  would 
help  him  to  pass  away  the  time  before  he  died 
of  starvation.  He  could  pick  oakum  if  he  wished 
to  un-rope  the  rope  and  had  never  been  to 
prison  to  discover  what  a  loathsome  job  oakum- 
picking  is.  But  he  could  not  construct  a  rope- 
ladder  for  an  eloping  heiress  or  cord  her  boxes 
for  his  travelling  maiden  aunt,  because  the  eloping 
heiress  would  not  be  eloping  in  a  desert,  and  his 
maiden  aunt  would  hardly  be  packing  her  trunk 
in  the  Sahara.  He  might  be  able  to  tie  a  bow. 
He  might  even  be  able  to  hang  himself,  though  that 
is  doubtful,  for  trees  are  not  prolific  in  deserts. 
But  I  cannot  see  what  comfort  he  would  derive 
from  either  of  these  accomplishments. 

To  sum  up,  a  man  in  a  desert  with  nothing  but 
a  coil  of  rope  between  him  and  civilization  would 
be  in  as  complete  a  state  of  isolation  as  it  would 
be  possible  for  a  man  to  imagine.  How  different 
would  be  the  case  of  the  man  in  a  desert  with  the 
despised  "modern  and  specialist"  telephone! 
For  he,  finding  a  telephone,  would  instantly  be 
able  to  communicate  with  other  people  and  to 

[102] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

direct  them  to  his  rescue.  If  he  were  anxious  to 
hang  himself,  he  could  more  effectively  do  so  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  a  telephone  than  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  a  coil  of  rope,  for  where  there  are 
telephones  there  are  generally  telegraph-poles! 

Even  in  the  case  of  the  open  fire  and  hot-water 
pipe,  as  much  can  be  said  for  the  "modern  and 
specialist  thing"  as  can  be  said  for  the  "ancient 
and  universal  thing,"  and  in  some  instances,  more 
can  be  said  for  it.  We  get  a  cheerful  glow  from 
an  open  fire  that  certainly  is  not  to  be  got  from  a 
hot-water  pipe;  but  Mr.  Chesterton  must  have  no- 
ticed on  many  occasions  that  whereas  one  gets 
tolerably  toasted  on  one  side  by  an  open  fire,  the 
other  side  is  usually  left  cold.  Thus  a  man,  on 
a  wintry  night,  sitting  before  the  fire,  may  be  too 
warm  in  front,  and  half-frozen  behind.  But  a 
hot-water  pipe  creates  an  equable  temperature  in  a 
room  and  leaves  a  man  warm  on  all  sides. 

IV 

He  is  a  nationalist  and  therefore  opposed  to 
imperialism.  His  belief  in  peasant  proprietor- 
ship flows  naturally  from  his  belief  in  national- 

[103] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

ism.  He  defends  peasant  proprietorship  in  "Irish 
Impressions"  because  he  believes  that  a  country 
controlled  by  peasants  will  survive  long  after  more 
majestically-governed  nations  have  declined  and 
fallen : — 

I  do  not  know  how  far  modern  Europe  really  shows  a 
menace  of  Bolshevism,  or  how  far  merely  a  panic  of 
Capitalism.  But  I  know  that  if  any  honest  resistance 
has  to  be  offered  to  mere  robbery,  the  resistance  of  Ire- 
land will  be  the  most  honest  and  probably  the  most  im- 
portant. ...  It  is  where  property  is  well  distributed 
that  it  will  be  well  defended.  The  post  of  honour  will 
be  with  those  who  fight  in  very  truth  for  their  own  land. 

Now,  here  we  are  on  very  debateable  ground,  as 
debateable  as  his  statement  that  "honour  is  a  lux- 
ury for  aristocrats,  but  it  is  a  necessity  for  hall-por- 
ters," which  is  surely  an  obscure  rendering  of  the 
entirely  commercial  statement  that  "honesty  is  the 
best  policy."  Honour  is  not  honour  when  a  man 
uses  it  merely  because  it  is  profitable  to  him,  and  I 
cannot  see  much  virtue  in  him  who  fights  for  his 
land  simply  because  he  owns  it.  Honour  is  admir- 
able when  it  brings  not  profit  but  loss  to  the  man 
who  wears  it.  Virtue  is  in  the  man  who  fights  for 
his  country  though  he  does  not  own  an  inch  of  it. 

[104] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

And  here  I  come  to  my  objection  to  Mr.  Chester- 
ton's beloved  peasant  proprietorship,  the  cause  of 
my  dismay  at  the  thought  that  my  own  country  of 
Ireland  may  soon  be  controlled  by  small  farmers. 
It  is  true  that  a  peasant  will  fight  desperately 
for  his  own  piece  of  land,  but  he  manifests  a 
sturdy  reluctance  to  fight  for  another  man's  land; 
and  I  cannot  understand  why  Mr.  Chesterton  re- 
gards his  determination  to  hold  on  to  his  property 
as  more  "honest,"  or  more  "honourable"  than  the 
determination  of  a  Victory  bondholder  to  get  the 
last  cent  of  interest  out  of  the  taxpayers.  Peas- 
ants, no  less  than  other  men,  in  fact  more  than 
other  men,  have  itching  palms,  and  it  is  sheer  senti- 
mentalism  to  describe  as  "honest"  or  "honourable" 
behaviour  in  them  which  is  denounced  as  dishonest 
and  dishonourable  in  a  stockbroker.  It  is  true  that 
Lenin's  schemes  collapsed  completely  before  the 
resistance  of  the  Russian  peasants,  and  that  his 
plans  for  the  nationization  of  everything  failed  to 
include  the  principal  thing  of  all,  namely,  the  land ; 
but  Mr.  Chesterton  will  hardly  maintain  that  the 
Russian  peasants  had  disinterested  motives  in 
offering  this  resistance  to  Lenin.  He  may,  in- 
deed, insist  that  their  motives  were  entirely  inter- 

[105] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

ested  and  base  his  case  for  the  Distributive  State, 
as  Mr.  Belloc  named  it,  on  that  very  interest.  But 
a  nation  should  be  something  more  than  a  crowd 
of  peasants  digging  in  the  earth  for  their  personal 
profit,  and  when  Mr.  Chesterton  commends  his 
peasant  proprietors  to  me,  I  ask  not  for  the  signs 
of  their  interested  behaviour,  but  for  the  signs  of 
their  disinterested  behaviour.  When  he  tells  me 
that  the  peasant  will  fight  for  his  own  land,  I  ask 
him  whether  the  peasant  will  fight  for  his  neigh- 
bour's land?  When  he  tells  me  that  the  Irish 
peasant  will  resist  the  attempts  of  the  Bolshevist 
to  communalize  his  land,  I  ask  him  whether  the 
Irish  peasant  is  equally  ready  to  defend  the  French 
peasant  from  Russian  aggression?  Mr.  Chester- 
ton declares  that  France  had  claims  on  the  gati- 
tude  of  Ireland.  Did  the  Irish  peasant  farmer 
remember  those  claims  on  his  gratitude?  Or  did 
he  find  it  more  convenient  and  profitable  to  ejac- 
ulate, "Yah,  dirty  atheist,  go  and  fight  your  own 
battles!"  In  deriding  the  idea  of  empire,  Mr. 
Chesterton  says  in  this  book  of  "Irish  Impressions" 
that  "the  British  combination"  is  "more  lax  and 
liable  to  schism"  than  a  combination  of  peasants. 
I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  truth  in  this  state- 

[106]  " 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

merit,  particularly  when  I  remember  that  "the  Brit- 
ish combination"  held  together  for  five  years  in 
circumstances  that  might  have  been  expected  to 
shake  it  to  pieces.  Let  me  give  you  an  example, 
out  of  my  experience  during  the  War,  of  the  way 
in  which  the  Imperial  idea  rallies  men  to  its  sup- 
port to  their  own  loss.  While  I  was  being  trained 
to  be  an  officer,  I  shared  a  hut  with  twenty-five 
other  men.  Between  us,  we  represented  every  part 
of  the  British  Empire.  The  twenty-six  men  in  that 
hut  included  Englishmen,  Scotsmen,  Welshmen  and 
two  Irishmen  (one  of  whom  was  an  Orangeman, 
and  the  other,  myself,  a  Home  Ruler).  In  ad- 
dition to  these,  there  were  two  Australians,  a  man 
from  New  Zealand,  two  men  from  Canada,  two 
from  South  Africa  and  a  couple  of  men  from 
South  America,  one  a  Spaniard  and  the  other  the 
son  of  English  parents.  Many  of  these  men  had 
travelled  for  thousands  of  miles  at  their  own  ex- 
pense in  order  to  join  the  British  Army.  They 
were  volunteers.  I  would  like  to  see  the  com- 
munity of  peasants  that  would  travel  ten  yards 
to  defend  anything  but  their  own  personal  prop- 
erty, except  under  compulsion. 

When  I  cited  this  case  to  Mr.  Chesterton  some 

[107] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

time  ago,  in  controversy  with  him,  he  replied  with 
characteristic  amiability  that  Serbia  was  a  com- 
munity of  peasants,  and  that  Serbia  had  fought  in 
the  War.  When  I  asked  whether  Serbia  would 
have  fought  for  Montenegro,  he  replied  that  she 
had  done  more  than  that,  she  had  fought  for  "the 
wholly  invisible  bond  of  all  Christendom."  But 
Serbia  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  fought  for 
herself  because  she  was  invaded.  That  was  a  per- 
fectly proper  thing  to  do,  but  there  is  no  compar- 
ison between  it  and  the  behaviour  of  men  respond- 
ing at  their  own  cost  to  the  Imperial  idea,  although 
many  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  place  of 
argument  and  under  no  compulsion  to  go  to  it. 

The  truth  about  a  peasant  civilization  is  that  it 
is  a  mean  civilization,  in  which  mean  virtues  com- 
pete with  mean  vices,  and  the  small  and  local  thing 
is  esteemed  above  the  big  and  worldwide  thing. 
There  are  many  defects  in  empires,  even  in  one  so 
loosely-bound  as  the  British  Empire,  but  although 
those  who  control  an  empire  are  often  guilty  of 
cruel  deeds,  there  is  at  least  this  to  be  said  in  their 
defense,  that  they  honestly  believe  themselves  to  be 
possessed  of  greater  wisdom  than  those  whom  they 

[108] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

oppress,  and  do  desire  in  their  stupid  fashion  to 
govern  them  for  their  good. 

On  the  whole,  freedom  may  be  defined  as  the 
right  to  choose;  but  that  definition  must  obviously 
be  subject  to  limitations.  There  is  a  sort  of  wild 
and  woolly  democrat  who  believes  in  the  right  of 
uninstructed  persons  to  choose  wrong.  It  is  not 
a  right  in  which  I  believe.  Mr.  Chesterton  thinks, 
not  without  justification,  that  the  common  man  can 
choose  in  a  right  manner.  If  his  creed  were  con- 
fined to  that  clause  we  could  accept  it  with  heart- 
iness, but  there  are  times  when  he  seems  to  think 
that  the  common  man  chooses  aright  because  he  is 
a  common  man,  and  he  leaves  us  with  the  impres- 
sion that  he  can  never  quite  forgive  Magna  Charta 
because  it  was  won  by  peers,  and  not  by  peasants. 
He  seems  not  to  realize  that  if  Magna  Charta  had 
depended  upon  peasants,  it  would  never  have  been 
won. 


But  he  helps  us  to  keep  a  balance.     His  service 
to  us  is  that  when  we  are  inclined  to  run  frantically 

[109] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

after  the  superman,  he  reminds  us  of  the  existence 
of  the  common  man.  If  he  were  not  so  well- 
padded  with  flesh,  I  should  describe  him  as  the 
skeleton  at  a  feast  of  supermen,  reminding  them 
that  even  a  superman  can  be  a  fool. 

There  are  times  indeed,  when  his  faith  in  the 
common  man  undergoes  a  sea-change,  and  he  ut- 
ters sentiments  that  might  be  spoken  by  Mr.  H. 
L.  Mencken,  who  cannot  abide  the  common  mind. 
In  one  of  his  essays,  Mr.  Chesterton  says,  "I  cer- 
tainly would  much  rather  share  my  apartments  with 
a  gentleman  who  though  he  was  God  than  with  a 
gentleman  who  thought  he  was  a  grasshopper." 
So  would  Nietzsche.  But  I  doubt  whether  the 
Early  Christians  would  have  approved  his  prefer- 
ence. They,  who  were  ready  to  pronounce  all 
flesh  to  be  grass,  would  not  have  found  anything  in- 
compatible with  their  faith  in  a  gentleman 
who  regarded  himself  as  a  grasshopper.  They 
would  certainly  have  considered  his  rival  in  mis- 
apprehension to  be  a  blasphemer.  And  if  Mr. 
Chesterton  would  fail  to  find  pleasure  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  man  who  believed  himself  to  be  that  in- 
teresting but  monotonous  insect,  how  much  less 
pleasure  would  he  derive  from  sharing  his  apart- 

[110] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

merits  with  a  man  who  believed  not  only  himself, 
but  all  men,  to  be  worms? 

He  is  personally  the  most  kindly  and  agreeable 
of  men,  in  whom  the  one  virtue  commonly  as- 
cribed to  fat  men,  that  of  good  nature,  is  most 
highly  developed.  His  anger  is  almost  completely 
impersonal.  His  pardon  is  on  the  heels  of  his 
condemnation.  The  sins  of  jealously  and  hatred 
are  unknown  to  him,  and  he  seems  to  be  without 
the  power  of  resenting  spiteful  things  done  to  him- 
self. He  said  to  me  on  one  occasion,  "Arnold  Ben- 
nett says  I'm  an  imbecile!"  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  was  not  in  the  least  annoyed  by  the  statement, 
but  puzzled  by  the  fact  that  any  man  should  call 
another  one  an  offensive  name.  We  are  all  chil- 
dren of  the  one  God,  in  his  belief,  even  if  some 
of  us  are  Jews,  and  in  some  mystical  manner  he 
contrives,  in  his  anger,  to  discriminate  between  the 
human  being  and  the  thing  which  the  human  being 
does.  If  ever  he  is  moved  to  slay  a  sweater  or 
an  international  financier  or  a  Prohibitionist,  he 
will  do  so  entirely  without  prejudice  to  that  per- 
son's right  to  be  called  a  child  of  God.  It  is  a 
tribute  to  the  charm  of  his  character  and  the  equ- 
ability of  his  temper  that  his  stoutest  admirers  are 

[in] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

those  who  most  vigorously  combat  his  opinions, 
and  that  most  of  his  friends  are  men  who  do  not 
share  any  of  his  views,  except  perhaps  the  only 
view  that  matters,  the  view  that  an  ill  deed  must  be 
exposed  and  a  wrong  put  right.  He  is  Don  Quix- 
ote in  the  body  of  Sancho  Panza. 


[112] 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

I 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  an  artist  never  intrudes 
his  personality  into  his  work  and  that  the  great 
writers  of  the  world  have  kept  themselves  so  closely 
to  themselves  that  their  readers  have  never  been 
able  to  discover  anything  of  their  faith  or  partial- 
ities. This  is  not  only  untrue,  but  is  also  absurd, 
for  how  can  any  man  hope  to  exclude  himself  from 
his  creations,  since  without  him  the  creations  would 
not  be?  There  never  was  a  book  of  any  sort  which 
did  not  in  some  fashion  reveal  the  nature  of  its 
author  to  discerning  readers,  and  I  will  personally 
undertake  to  give  a  fairly  accurate  account  of  the 
general  character  of  any  author  after  an  attentive 
reading  of  all  his  writings.  There  are  authors, 
such  as  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  and  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells, 
who  do  not  make  any  pretence  of  excluding  them- 
selves from  the  notice  of  their  readers:  they  de- 
liberately force  themselves  into  their  books;  and 
the    habit    has     become     so     much    a     part  of 

[113] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

their  nature  that  they  sometimes  do  it  uncon- 
sciously. One  may  say  of  them,  perhaps,  that 
we  learn  chiefly  from  their  writings  what  their 
opinions  are,  but  learn  nothing  of  their 
characters.  But  while  it  is  true  that  we  do 
receive  much  information  about  their  opinions,  it 
is  true  also,  I  think,  that  they  unmistakably  reveal 
themselves,  something  of  the  intimate  parts  of 
them,  to  those  who  closely  consider  their  books. 
Fielding  formally  held  up  the  course  of  his  stories 
in  order  that  he  might  state  his  views  to  his  readers, 
and  Dickens  and  Thackeray  followed  his  example; 
but  all  three  of  them  revealed  more  than  their  be- 
liefs to  their  readers — they  revealed  them- 
selves. Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Wells  are  excellent 
examples  of  what  may  be  described  as  the  Direct 
Revealers — writers  who  nakedly  manifest  their 
opinions  and,  more  or  less  nakedly,  their  personal- 
ities in  their  books.  The  Indirect  Revealers  are 
best  exemplified  in  two  poets,  Shakespeare  and 
John  Millington  Synge,  and  one  novelist  and  dram- 
atist, Mr.  John  Galsworthy.  We  have  very  little 
documentary  evidence  of  Shakespeare's  existence, 
and  it  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  write  his  biog- 
raphy with  the  accuracy  of  detail  with  which  one 

[114] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

is  able  to  record  the  events  of,  say,  Roosevelt's 
career;  but  there  is  a  clear  and  unmistakable  ac- 
count of  his  hopes  and  fears  and  beliefs  and  dis- 
beliefs, a  most  faithful  portrait  of  his  character, 
contained  in  his  poems  and  plays.  How  can  any 
one  fail  to  discover  behind  his  work  the  figure  of 
a  grave,  fastidious,  disdainful  and  distrustful  and 
solitary  man  whose  spiritual  solitude  was  con- 
cealed under  an  appearance  of  gregariousness  and 
cheerful  living  that  made  him  a  good  companion 
on  most  occasions  without  being  excessively  pop- 
ular. Ben  Jonson,  despite  his  quarrelsome  char- 
acter, was  probably  more  deeply  loved  by  his  con- 
temporaries than  Shakespeare  was,  because  Shake- 
speare had  more  of  reserve  and  spiritual  isolation 
than  Ben  had,  and  was  less  willing  to  put  faith  in 
the  virtue  of  the  crowd ;  and  I  imagine  that  had  one 
interrogated  any  of  Shakespeare's  friends,  they 
would  have  said  of  him,  "Oh,  yes,  I  like  William 
Shakespeare  very  much!  Talks  well!  He's  a 
good  chap,  but  a  little  odd  .  .  .  queer  ...  at 
times.  It  isn't  easy  to  make  friends  with  him. 
He  always  keeps  us  at  our  distance — not  deliber- 
ately, of  course,  but  in  some  vague  way.  He  un- 
derstands us  all  right,  and  he  takes  part  in  our 

[115] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

revels,  but  he  never  completely  descends  to  our 
level.  Now,  old  Ben  .  .  .  he's  a  good,  hearty 
chap!  He  is  so  comradely  that  we  frequently  for- 
get he  is  Ben  Jonson  and  think  of  him  as  just  one 
of  ourselves.  Shakespeare's  friendly  enough,  but 
we  never  forget  that  he  is  Shakespeare.  Some- 
times, quite  unintentionally,  he  makes  us  feel  a 
little  common!   .  .  ." 

The  best  biography  of  John  Synge  that  I  have 
read — and  I  have  read  all  of  them — is  contained 
in  his  plays  and  poems.  It  is  impossible  to  rise 
from  his  books  without  an  impression  of  intense 
loneliness  and  unachievable  desires,  of  a  man 
eager  to  be  the  hero  of  romantic  exploits,  but 
totally  unable  to  stand  up  to  life  and  make  him- 
self a  hero  because  of  some  spiritual  ineffective- 
ness, some  lack  of  assertion  which  results  in  fum- 
bling and  self-distrust;  and  one  goes  from  the  plays 
and  poems  to  the  biographies  and  is  not  surprised 
at  reading  of  his  lonely  life.  How  often  the  word 
"lonesome"  occurs  in  his  writings,  and  how  deeply 
he  insists  on  the  terrors  of  solitude!  Pegeen  Mike 
in  the  "The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World"  re- 
proves her  father  for  going  "over  the  sands  to 
Kate  Cassidy's  wake"  and  leaving  her  alone  in  the 
shebeen: 

[116] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

If  I  am  a  queer  daughter,  it's  a  queer  father'd  be 
leaving  me  lonesome  these  twelve  hours  of  dark,  and 
I  piling  the  turf  with  the  dogs  barking,  and  the  calves 
mooing,  and  my  own  teeth  rattling  with  the  fear. 

I  imagine  that  there  is  some  deep  personal  feel- 
ing of  Synge's  in  the  speech  he  puts  into  the  mouth 
of  Christy  Mahon  in  the  second  act  of  the  same 
play: 

Christy:  And  isn't  it  a  poor  thing  to  be  starting 
again,  and  I  a  lonesome  fellow  will  be  looking  out  on 
women  and  girls  the  way  the  needy  fallen  spirits  do  be 
looking  for  the  Lord? 


*& 


Pegeen:  What  call  have  you  to  be  lonesome  when 
there's  poor  girls  walking  Mayo  in  their  thousands  now? 

Christy:  It's  well  you  know  what  call  I  have.  It's 
well  you  know  it's  a  lonesome  thing  to  be  passing  small 
towns  with  the  lights  shining  sideways  when  the  night 
is  down,  or  going  in  strange  places  with  a  dog  noising 
before  you  and  a  dog  noising  behind,  or  drawn  to  the 
cities  where  you'd  hear  a  voice  kissing  and  talking  deep 
love  in  every  shadow  of  the  ditch,  and  you  passing  on 
with  an  empty,  hungry  stomach  failing  from  your 
heart. 

[117] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

Pegeen:  I'm  thinking  you're  an  odd  man,  Christy 
Mahon.  The  oddest  walking  fellow  I  ever  set  my  eyes 
on  to  this  hour  to-day. 

Christy:  What  would  any  be  but  odd  men  and  they 
living  lonesome  in  the  world? 

The  scene  of  all  his  plays  is  laid  in  a  lonely 
place:  the  last  cottage  at  the  head  of  a  long  glen 
in  Wicklow;  a  small  and  remote  island  off  the 
west  coast  of  Ireland;  a  distant  hamlet  in  a  moun- 
tainous district.  His  people  are  possessed  of  a 
perpetual  fear  of  death  and  old  age,  and  lead  un- 
eventful lives,  having  minds  which  continually 
crave  for  the  performance  of  splendid  and  un- 
usual deeds.  Few  men  have  put  their  longings 
and  disappointments  so  boldly  and  plainly  into 
their  work  as  John  Synge  put  his.  I  do  not  sug- 
gest that  an  author  may  be  identified  with  every 
word  and  action  of  his  creatures — a  manifestly 
absurd  suggestion — but  I  do  suggest  that  it  is  pos- 
sible for  an  intelligent  reader  to  obtain  a  very 
clear  and  well-defined  impression  of  the  character 
and  beliefs  of  an  author  from  a  careful  study  of 
the  whole  body  of  his  work. 

[118] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 
II 

Mr.  John  Galsworthy  is  the  most  sensitive  figure 
in  the  ranks  of  modern  men  of  letters,  but  his 
sensitiveness  is  of  a  peculiar  nature,  for  it  is  almost 
totally  impersonal.  One  thinks  of  Dostoievsky 
eternally  pitying  himself  in  the  belief  that  he  was 
pitying  humanity  and  particularly  that  part  of  it 
which  is  Russian;  or  of  Maxim  Gorki,  as  shown  in 
his  vivid  and  extraordinary  study  of  Leo  Tolstoi,* 
preoccupied  with  himself  to  the  extent  of  imagin- 
ing that  Tolstoi,  the  aristocrat,  related  salacious 
stories  in  common  speech  to  him,  the  peasant,  be- 
cause he  imagined  that  Gorki,  being  of  vulgar  or- 
igin,  could  not  appreciate   refined   conversation: 

I  remember  my  first  meeting  with  him  and  his  talk 
about  "Varienka  Oliessova"  and  "Twenty-six  and  One." 
From  the  ordinary  point  of  view,  what  he  said  was  a 
string  of  indecent  words.  I  was  perplexed  by  it  and 
even  offended.  I  thought  that  he  considered  me  incapa- 
ble of  understanding  any  other  kind  of  language.  I 
understand  now:  it  was  silly  to  have  felt  offended. 

One  thinks,  too,  of  Mr.  Shaw's  lively  interest 
in  himself,  and  of  Mr.  Wells's  eagerness  to  remold 

*  Reminiscences  of  Leo  Nicolayevitch  Tolstoi,  by  Maxim  Gorki. 

[119] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  world  nearer  to  his  heart's  desire.  And  re- 
membering these  men,  intensely  individual  and 
not  reluctant  to  speak  of  themselves,  one  is  startled 
to  discover  how  destitute  of  egotism  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy seems  to  be.  It  may  even  be  argued  that 
his  lack  of  interest  in  himself  is  a  sign  of  inade- 
quate artistry,  that  it  is  impossible  for  a  man  of 
supreme  quality  to  be  so  utterly  unconcerned  about 
himself  as  Mr.  Galsworthy  is.  He  has  written 
more  than  a  dozen  novels  and  at  least  a  dozen 
plays,  but  there  is  not  one  line  in  any  of  them  to 
denote  that  he  takes  any  interest  whatever  in  John 
Galsworthy.  The  most  obvious  characteristic  of 
his  work  is  an  immense  and,  sometimes,  indis- 
criminating  pity,  but  I  imagine  that  the  only  crea- 
ture on  whom  he  has  no  pity  is  himself.  What- 
ever of  joy  and  grief  he  has  had  in  life  has  been 
closely  retained,  and  the  reticence  which  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  English  people — I  am  now  using 
the  word  "English"  in  the  strict  sense — in  pre- 
war times,  but  is  hardly  characteristic  of  them 
now,  is  most  clearly  to  be  observed  in  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy. And  yet  there  are  few  among  contem- 
porary writers  who  reveal  so  much  of  themselves 
as  he  does.     Neither  Mr.  Shaw  nor  Mr.  Wells, 

[120] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

who  constantly  expose  their  beliefs  to  their  readers, 
do  in  the  long  run  tell  so  much  about  their  charac- 
ters as  Mr.  Galsworthy,  who  never  makes  a  con- 
scious revelation  of  himself  and  is  probably  quite 
unaware  that  he  had  made  any  revelations  at  all. 
How  often  have  we  observed  in  our  own  relation- 
ships that  some  garrulous  person,  constantly  en- 
gaged in  egotistical  conversation,  contrives  to  con- 
ceal knowledge  of  himself  from  us,  while  some 
silent  friend,  with  lips  tightly  closed,  most  amaz- 
ingly gives  himself  away.  One  looks  at  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy's handsome,  sensitive  face  and  is  immedi- 
ately aware  of  tightened  lips!  .  .  .  But  the  lips 
are  not  tightened  because  of  things  done  to  him, 
but  because  of  things  done  to  others. 

I  remember,  more  than  ten  years  ago,  reading 
a  notice  of  the  first  performance  of  "Justice"  in 
an  English  Sunday  newspaper  in  which  the  critic, 
who  must  have  been  terribly  drunk  when  he  wrote 
it,  attacked  the  play,  making  nine  misstatements  of 
fact  about  it  in  as  many  lines.  Those  were  the 
days  when  I  took  the  field  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion. An  insult  offered  to  a  man  of  letters  for 
whom  I  had  respect  was  an  insult  offered  to  me, 
and  I  made  much  trouble  for  myself  by  smacking 

[121] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

faces  with  great  ferocity  for  offences,  not  against 
me,  but  against  my  friends  and  my  betters.  I 
wrote  a  letter  to  that  critic  which  created  some 
havoc  in  his  sodden  brain,  and  I  then  posted  a 
copy  of  it  to  Mr.  Galsworthy.  He  thanked  me 
very  civilly  for  what  I  had  done,  and  added  that 
he  never  replied  to  criticism  of  any  sort!  I  was 
astounded  by  his  statement  and  a  little  dashed. 
My  faith  in  those  days  was,  crudely,  two  eyes  for 
one  tooth!  Those  who  struck  at  me  might  expect 
two  blows  in  return.  Like  Mrs.  Ferguson,  in  my 
play,  "John  Ferguson,"  I  said  to  myself,  "If  any- 
one was  to  hurt  me,  I'd  do  my  best  to  hurt  them 
back  and  hurt  them  harder  nor  they  hurt  me!" 
I  could  not  bring  myself  into  line  with  the  meek- 
ness of  Mr.  Galsworthy  until  I  discovered  in  it  a 
form  of  supreme  arrogance!  .  .  .  Now  that  I 
know  him  and  his  work  better,  I  realize  that  I  was 
wrong  in  my  estimation  of  him  both  as  excessively 
meek  and  excessively  arrogant.  His  rule  never 
to  reply  to  criticism,  however  unfair,  is  a  sign,  not 
of  humility  or  pride,  but  of  complete  indifference 
to  himself.  I  can  believe  in  him  becoming  fu- 
rious with  one  who  belittles  a  dog,  but  I  cannot  be- 

[122] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

lieve  in  him  displaying  any  feeling  over  one  who 
belittles  John  Galsworthy. 

But  when  I  look  at  his  tightened  lips,  I  feel 
certain  that  they  are  drawn  closely  together,  not 
to  prevent  himself  from  forgetting  his  indifference 
to  himself,  but  to  prevent  him  from  pouring  out 
his  anger  at  wrong  and  cruelty  suffered  by  other 
people.  His  hatred  of  injustice  possesses  him  like 
a  fury,  so  that  I  expect  to  find  his  hands  always 
clenched.  There  are  times,  indeed,  when  he  al- 
lows his  feeling  for  others,  human  and  animal, 
to  destroy  his  sense  of  proportion,  and  he  will 
sometimes  imagine  that  people  or  beasts  are  suf- 
fering a  great  deal  more  of  pain  than  they  really 
are,  even  that  they  are  suffering  when  in  fact  they 
are  not  suffering  at  all.  This  is  the  complaint  most 
commonly  made  of  him  by  his  critics,  that  he  some- 
times exaggerates  the  extent  to  which  people  and, 
particularly,  animals  suffer.  When  I  was  a  child, 
I  remember  that  I  often  read  in  sentimental  Sun- 
day-school books  of  slum  children  who  never 
smiled  and  had  never  seen  grass.  I  suppose 
that  fundamentally  I  have  a  sceptical  mind,  for 
even  then  I  found  myself  doubting  whether  there 

[123] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

were  any  children  in  the  world  who  had  never 
seen  grass.  Grass  is  so  persistent!  ...  I  knew 
that  a  street  had  only  to  be  free  of  traffic  for  a 
short  while  and  little  blades  of  grass  would  begin 
to  push  up  from  between  the  cobbles!  ...  It 
might  be  that  slum  children  never  smiled — though 
I  was  dubious  of  that — but  all  of  them  must  have 
seen  some  grass  sometime.     Then  I  grew  up  and 

rleft  Ulster  and  went  to  England,  and  for  two  or 
three  years  I  lived  on  the  confines  of  a  slum  in 
South  London,  where  I  discovered  that  my  senti- 
mental authors  were  sentimental  liars,  that  poor 
people  do  not  live  lives  of  incessant  misery,  that 
they  smile  and  laugh  as  often  as,  if  not  more  fre- 
quently than,  rich  people,  and  are  fully  as  happy 
as  any  one  else.  Happiness  and  unhappiness  are 
conditions  of  the  spirit,  and  provided  a  man  has 
sufficient  food  to  eat  and  a  decent  shelter  and  warm 
clothes,  it  matters  very  little  whether  he  be  rich 
or  poor.  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  not  always  as  sensi- 
ble of  this  as  he  might  be.  Like  many  idealists 
he  attaches  more  importance  to  material  things  than 
many  materialists  do.  He  lets  himself  be  too 
easily  persuaded  that  a  thing  is  wrong  because  it 
looks  wrong.     If  he  had  walked  into  the  Valley  of 

[124] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

Elah  on  that  morning  when  the  fair  and  ruddy 
youth,  David,  encountered  Goliath,  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  run  t6  David's  side.  What  combat 
could  have  seemed  more  unequal  than  that? 
David  was  young  and  slender  and  of  ordinary  stat- 
ure. He  wore  no  armor  and  his  weapons  were  a 
sling  and  five  pebbles  casually  picked  from  a  brook. 
Goliath  was  five  cubits  and  a  span  high,  and  his 
huge  body  was  covered  with  heavy  armor.  There 
was  a  helmet  of  brass  on  his  head,  and  there  were 
greaves  of  brass  on  his  legs,  and  a  target  of  brass 
between  his  shoulders.  His  weapons  were  ter- 
rible: the  staff  of  his  spear  was  like  a  weaver's 
beam,  and  his  spear's  head  weighed  six  hundred 
shekels  of  iron.  A  man  walked  in  front  of  him 
carrying  a  shield!  ...  No  wonder  that  Goliath 
mocked  at  David  and  threatened  to  pick  the  flesh 
from  his  bones  and  give  it  to  the  birds.  He  prob- 
ably felt  that  one  breath  from  his  mouth  would 
blow  David  clean  out  of  the  valley.  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy, had  he  been  present  on  that  occasion, 
would  have  said  to  himself,  "Poor  David,  young 
and  slight  and  ill-armed,  has  no  chance  whatever 
against  this  great  hulking,  uncircumcized  Philis- 
tine! .  .  ."     The   combat  certainly  was   an   un- 

[125] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

equal  one,  but  the  advantage  lay,  not  with  Goliath, 
but  with  David.  The  giant  had  the  outward  show 
of  strength,  but  David  had  the  Power  of  God  in  his 
right  arm,  and  before  that  Power  Goliath  was  but 
a  boneless  beast.  Mr.  Galsworthy  makes  Stephen 
More  in  his  play  "The  Mob,"  revile  the  crowd  in 
these  terms: 

You  are  the  thing  that  pelts  the  weak;  kicks  women; 
howls  down  free  speech.  This  to-day,  and  that  to-mor- 
row. Brain — you  have  none!  Spirit — not  the  ghost  of 
it!  If  you're  not  meanness,  there's  no  such  thing.  If 
you're  not  cowardice,  there  is  no  cowardice. 

Neither  Stephen  More  nor  Mr.  Galsworthy  ap- 
pears to  know  that  these  characteristics  of  the  mob 
are  the  characteristics  of  weak  things.  Strong  men 
do  not  pelt  the  weak  or  kick  women,  nor  do  they 
prevent  free  speech.  It  is  weak  men  and  timid 
men  and  ignorant,  frightened  men — politicians  and 
officials  and  guttersnipes  and  sinners — who  dj 
these  things,  because  they  have  neither  the  courage 
nor  the  strength  nor  the  intelligence  to  do  other- 
wise. The  mob-instinct  of  unreasoning  chivalry, 
the  natural  impulse  to  take  the  part  of  "the  little 
'un,"  constitutes  a  very  serious  danger  to  Mr.  Gals- 

[126] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

worthy's  work:  he  is  becoming  increasingly  par- 
tisan in  his  opinions  and  sympathies,  with  the  result 
that  his  sentiment  is  in  danger  of  degenerating  into 
sentimentalism,  and  he,  so  commonly  considered 
impartial,  is  likely  to  end  in  a  state  of  hopeless  and 
wrong-headed  bias.  He  is  beginning  to  believe 
that  a  weak  man  is  right  because  he  is  weak.  He 
is  forgetting  the  truth  enunciated,  perhaps  exces- 
sively, by  Dr.  Stockmann  in  "An  Enemy  of  the 
People"  that  "the  strongest  man  in  the  world  is  the 
man  who  stands  absolutely  alone."  Or  if  he  has 
not  forgotten  it,  he  is  in  danger  of  believing  that 
a  minority  is  always  in  the  right  because  it  is  a 
minority:  a  belief  which  is  as  fallacious  as  that 
which  Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton  sometimes  seems  to 
hold,  that  a  majority  is  always  in  the  right  because 
it  is  a  majority.  The  plain  and  platitudinous 
truth  is  that  only  those  are  in  the  right  who  are  in 
the  right,  whether  they  be  in  a  majority  or  in  a 
minority.  Weakness,  although  it  may  endow  a 
man  with  cunning,  does  not  endow  him  with  moral 
authority.  Mr.  Galsworthy  at  times  lets  his  pity 
Tor  weakness  lead  him  into  seeming  to  regard  it  as 
a  sign  of  infallible  judgment. 

[127] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 
III 

Mr.  Galsworthy  can  create  people  and  he  can 
write  natural  dialogue.  "The  Silver  Box"  is  a 
testimony  of  his  power  to  do  so.  But  in  his  later 
plays  he  has  not  always  allowed  his  creatures  to  be- 
have in  a  creditable  fashion,  nor  has  he  always 
written  dialogue  that  exactly  fits  their  tongues. 
One  suspects,  too,  that  he  is  losing  his  sense  of 
proportion,  that  he  is  not  so  capable  now  as  he  was 
earlier  in  his  career  of  distinguishing  between 
things  which  are  important  and  things  which 
are  not.  He  has  developed  an  interest  in  trivial 
questions  of  sex  and  has  become  so  absorbed  in 
dilemmas  of  colliding  characters  that  he  has  lost 
sight  of  the  nature  of  his  characters.  He  has  been 
called  a  Determinist  because  he  shows  his  people 
as  the  creature  of  circumstances,  but  in  his  later 
work,  particularly  in  his  play  "The  Fugitive,"  his 
Determinism  has  become  wilful:  he  seems  to  have 
made  up  his  mind  that  his  characters  shall  be- 
come the  victims  of  circumstances  in  defiance  of 
facts  and  the  natures  with  which  he  has  created 
them.  He  deliberately  ties  their  hands  behind 
their  backs  and  then  exclaims:     "These  are  the  vie- 

[128] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

tims  of  adverse  circumstances!"  And  indeed  they 
are,  but  the  circumstances  have  been  artifically 
created  by  Mr.  Galsworthy  and  not  by  any  force 
that  governs  the  universe.  He  is  so  eager  to  bring 
Clare  Dedmond,  in  "The  Fugitive,"  to  her  death  in 
a  restaurant  frequented  by  prostitutes  that  he  to- 
tally neglects  to  consider  the  fact  that  with  the  na- 
ture he  gives  her  she  is  the  last  person  on  earth 
likely  to  end  that  way. 

It  is  not  in  ideas  that  Mr.  Galsworthy  fails,  so 
far  as  his  later  work  is  concerned — it  is  in  exe- 
cution. The  idea  of  "The  Fugitive"  is  a  notable 
one.  The  play,  which  in  its  faults  is  significant  of 
all  Mr.  Galsworthy's  later  plays,  deals  with  the 
tragic  failure  of  a  sensitive  woman  to  adjust  her 
life  to  that  of  a  dull,  unimaginative  man  in  whom, 
although  the  conventions  and  traditions  of  his  class 
have  schooled  him  into  a  certain  decency  of  form, 
there  is  a  very  large  measure  of  coarseness.  The 
collision  is  between  the  finely-perceptive  and  the 
totally-imperceptive,  and  the  theme  is  similar,  in 
one  respect,  to  that  of  "The  Doll's  House,"  and  in 
another  to  that  of  "The  Shadow  of  the  Glen."  But 
the  treatment  of  it  is  very  inferior  to  the  treatment 
of  it  by  Ibsen  and  Synge.     Ibsen  plainly  showed 

[129] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

how  impossible  it  was  for  Nora  to  continue  to  live 
with  her  husband  after  she  had  suffered  her  disil- 
lusionment. He  showed  with  equal  clarity  how 
natural  it  was  that  she  should  marry  and  love  her 
husband,  and  yet  in  the  end,  turn  away  from  him. 
Mr.  Galsworthy  takes  Clare  Dedmond  beyond  the 
stage  to  which  Ibsen  took  Nora.  Ibsen  was  content 
to  end  his  play  with  Nora's  exit  from  her  husband's 
home:  he  did  not  follow  her  from  it  nor  show  what 
became  of  her  thereafter.  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  con- 
cerned less  with  the  act  of  separation  and  more 
with  the  consequences  if  it.  He  is  not  so  interested 
in  her  flight  from  her  husband  as  he  is  in  what 
happens  to  her  after  she  has  flown  from  him.  He 
has  taken  a  longer  stretch  of  Clare's  life  than 
Ibsen  took  of  Nora's,  but  he  has  contrived  to  make 
it  smaller  than  Nora's.  One  derives  an  extraor- 
dinary sense  of  completeness  and  space  from  "The 
Doll's  House,"  but  does  not  derive  a  similar  sense 
from  "The  Fugitive."  Ibsen  gives  one  a  sense  of 
familiarity  with  his  people,  but  Mr.  Galsworthy 
hardly  makes  one  more  familiar  with  Clare  Ded- 
mond and  her  husband  than  a  reader  of  a  news- 
paper is  with  the  principal  parties  to  a  divorce 
suit. 

[130] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Clare  Dedmond,  like  Nora  Burke  in  Synge's 
"The  Shadow  of  the  Glen,"  is  suffering  from 
starved  emotions,  but  Synge  in  his  one-act  play  has 
created  the  atmosphere  of  starved  emotions  far 
more  successfully  than  Mr.  Galsworthy  has  done  in 
his  four  acts.  The  antagonism  between  Nora  and 
Daniel  Burke  is  instantly  understood  by  the  reader, 
who,  however,  cannot  immediately  understand  why 
it  is  that  Clare  and  George  Dedmond  do  not  "get 
on"  together.  The  reader  knows  why  Nora  married 
Daniel.  "And  how  would  I  live  and  I  an  old 
woman  if  I  hadn't  a  bit  of  a  farm  with  cows  on  it 
and  sheep  on  the  blackhills?"  The  sense  of  deso- 
lation in  this  woman's  life  is  so  powerfully  ex- 
pressed that  the  reader  of  the  play  does  not  ask 
questions.  He  does  not  stop  to  inquire  why  Nora 
married  her  husband:  he  knows  why  she  married 
him,  and  this  knowledge  is  derived,  not  from  the 
author's  assertions,  but  from  the  woman's  behav- 
iour. A  sense  of  desolation  is  not  created  when 
the  author  says  that  there  is  desolation,  nor  is  it 
created  when  a  character  says:  "I  am  miserable!" 
It  is  created  when  the  speech  and  behaviour  of 
the  characters  are  such  as  one  hears  and  sees  when 
people  are  unhappy.     It  would  be  absurd  for  a 

[131] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

writer  to  make  a  character  say:  "I  have  a  very 
kindly  disposition,"  and  then  show  him  in  the 
normal  habit  of  beating  his  wife,  kicking  his  grand- 
mother, and  ill-treating  animals  .  .  .  unless  he 
were  trying  to  be  funny  or  were  portraying  a  mad- 
man. There  must  be  consistency  between  char- 
acter and  conduct,  and  the  measure  of  a  writer's 
artistry  is  the  degree  to  which  he  succeeds  in  recon- 
ciling the  one  with  the  other. 

It  is  when  Mr.  Galsworthy's  later  work  is  tested 
in  this  manner  that  one  realizes  how  lamentably 
he  has  failed  to  create  the  illusion  of  life.  One 
goes  through  the  pages  of  "The  Fugitive"  making 
notes  of  interrogation!  One  does  not  ask:  "Why 
did  Ibsen's  Nora  marry  her  husband?"  "Why 
did  Synge's  Nora  marry  her  husband?"  because 
one  knows  the  answer  to  these  questions  from  the 
beginning  of  the  plays,  and  it  is  not  necessary  to 
ask  them.  But  why  did  Clare  Dedmond  marry 
her  husband?  Because  she  loved  him?  Because 
she  wished  to  be  married  and  no  one  else  had  asked 
her?  For  money?  To  escape  from  her  parents? 
It  is  impossible  to  say.  Most  of  the  faults  which 
I  find  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  work  are  to  be  found  in 

[132] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

this  play  and  so  I  propose  to  examine  it  here  in  de- 
tail. 

The  story  of  "The  Fugitive"  is  summarily 
this: — 

Clare  Huntington,  the  daughter  of  a  poor  parson, 
is  married  to  George  Dedmond,  a  man  of  wealth 
and  social  position.  When  the  play  begins  these 
two  have  reached  that  point  in  their  marital  re- 
lationship when  their  unhappiness  is  plain  to  their 
acquaintances.  The  husband,  irritated  and  puz- 
zled, is  eager  to  make  a  compromise  which  will 
not  involve  legal  separation  and  "talk." 

Clare  (softly).  I  don't  give  satisfaction.  Please  give 
me  notice. 

George.    Pish ! 

Clare.  Five  years,  and  four  of  them' like  this!  I'm 
sure  we've  served  our  time.  Don't  you  really  think  we 
might  get  on  better  together — if  I  went  away. 

George.  I've  told  you  I  won't  stand  a  separation  for 
no  real  reason,  and  have  your  name  bandied  about  all 
over  London.     I  have  some  primitive  sense  of  honour. 

While  travelling  abroad  the  Dedmonds  make  the 
acquaintance  of  a  journalist  named  Kenneth 
Malise  who  is  employed  on  a  weekly  review.  He 
and  Clare  become  very  friendly  with  each  other, 

[133] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

but  George,  who  declares  that  Malise  is  a  bounder, 
does  not  share  the  friendship.  Malise  knows  that 
Clare  is  unhappy  in  her  marriage  and  he  incites 
her  to  "spread  your  wings."  He  does  not  appear 
to  have  thought  of  what  is  to  become  of  her  when 
she  spreads  her  wings,  nor  does  he  manifest  any 
concern  about  her  ability  to  remain  in  flight.  His 
attitude  towards  her  may  roughly  be  said  to  be: 
"It  doesn't  matter  what  happens  to  you  so  long 
as  you  run  away  from  your  husband!"  Clare 
eventually  leaves  her  husband,  and  in  the  second 
act  she  goes  to  Malise's  rooms  to  ask  for  his  ad- 
vice. She  has  taken  his  advice  to  spread  her 
wings.     What  is  she  to  do? 

Mr.  Malise  very  clearly  does  not  know  what 
she  is  to  do.  While  he  and  she  are  debating 
about  her  future  his  rooms  are  invaded  by  Ded- 
mond's  parents,  his  solicitor,  and,  subsequently, 
by  Dedmond  himself.  They  endeavour  to  per- 
suade Clare  to  return  to  her  husband,  which  she 
refuses  to  do,  and  there  is  a  scene  in  which  George 
Dedmond,  having  offered  to  take  Clare  back  to 
his  home,  goes  away  threatening  to  divorce  her 
and  cite  Malise  as  co-respondent.  After  this 
scene  Clare,  in  obedience  to  her  queer  sense  of 

[134] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

honour,  which  impels  her  to  make  hateful  returns 
for  favours  received,  offers  herself  in  physical 
submission  to  Malise,  without,  however,  being  able 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  such  submission  is  loath- 
some to  her.  It  is  necessary,  in  studying  this  play, 
to  take  considerable  notice  of  Clare's  attitude 
towards  physical  relationships.  Sexual  submis- 
sion is  repulsive  to  her,  not  only  in  relation  to 
her  husband,  whom  she  dislikes,  but  also  in  re- 
lation to  Malise,  for  whom  she  has  so  much  liking 
that  eventually  she  falls  in  love  with  him.  At  the 
moment  at  which  the  offer  is  first  made,  however, 
she  is  not  in  love  with  Malise:  she  offers  herself 
to  him  because  she  feels  that,  having  brought 
trouble  upon  him,  she  ought  to  make  reparation 
for  her  conduct! 

Clare.     If  I  must  bring  you  harm — let  me  pay  you 
back.     I  can't  bear  it  otherwise!     Make  some  use  of  me, 
if  you  don't  mind! 
Malise.     My  God! 

She  puts  her  face  up  to  be  kissed,  shutting  her 
eyes. 

Malise.    You  poor 

He  clasps  and  kisses  her;   then,  drawing  back, 

looks  in  her  face.     She  has  not  moved;  her 

eyes  are  still  closed.     But  she  is  shivering; 

[135] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

her  lips  are  tightly  pressed  together,  her 
hands  twitching. 

Malise  (very  quietly) .  No,  no!  This  is  not  the  house 
of  a  "gentleman." 

Clare,  (letting  her  head  fall,  and  almost  in  a 
whisper) .  I'm  sorry — 

Malise.     I  understand. 

Clare.     I  don't  feel.     And  without — I  can't,  can't. 

Malise  (bitterly).  Quite  right.  You've  had  enough 
of  that. 

That  speech — "I  don't  feel.  And  without — I 
can't,  can't" — is  the  key-speech  of  Clare  Ded- 
mond's  nature,  and,  in  view  of  the  end  of  the  play, 
must  be  remembered. 

Malise,  recognizing  that  Clare  cannot  happily 
be  his  mistress  otherwise  than  in  name,  will  not 
accept  her  offer  of  physical  submission  merely  as 
a  return  for  what  he  may  have  to  bear  in  her  be- 
half, and  so  she  leaves  his  flat.  She  obtains  em- 
ployment as  a  shop-assistant,  and  is  not  seen  again, 
by  her  family  or  by  Malise,  for  three  months. 
Then,  after  she  has  encountered  a  relative,  she  bolts 
in  a  panic  from  the  shop  and  returns  to  Malise's 
flat.  She  proposes  to  do  typewriting  and  asks 
him  to  find  employment  for  her.  He  gives  her 
some  of  his  own  MSS.  to  type,  and  while  they  are 

[136] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

discussing  her  prospects  of  employment  she  re- 
veals the  fact  that  she  now  loves  him. 

Malise.     Can  you  typewrite  where  you  are? 

Clare.  I  have  to  find  a  new  room,  anyway.  I'm 
changing — to  be  safe.  (She  takes  a  luggage  ticket  from 
her  glove) .  I  took  my  things  to  Charing  Cross — only  a 
bag  and  one  trunk.  (Then,  with  that  queer  expression 
on  her  face  which  prefaces  her  desperations.)  You 
don't  want  me  now,  I  suppose? 

Malise.    What? 

Clare,  (hardly  above  a  whisper).  Because — if  you 
still  wanted  me — I  do — now. 

Malise  (staring  hard  into  her  face  that  is  quivering 
and  smiling).     You  mean  it?     You  do?     You  care? 

Clare.  I've  thought  of  you — so  much.  But  only — 
if  you're  sure. 

He  clasps  her,  and  kisses  her  closed  eyes. 

That  love  declaration  is  singularly  unconvincing, 
more  so  to  the  reader  of  the  play  than  to  the  wit- 
ness of  it.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Clare's  liking 
for  Malise  increased  during  the  three  months  of 
their  separation,  particularly  as  she  regarded  him 
as  a  benefactor  to  whom  she  had  brought  trouble, 
but  it  seems  to  me  to  be  improbable  that  she  would 
declare  her  love  so  casually.  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
stage  directions  make  the  puzzle  more  involved. 

[137] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

If  Clare  were  in  love  with  Malise  to  the  extent  of 
overcoming  her  hatred  of  physical  contacts,  she 
would  hardly  have  "that  queer  expression  on  her 
face  which  prefaces  her  desperations."  When 
a  man  or  woman  is  desperate  he  or  she  is  hope- 
less or  almost  hopeless,  and  if  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
stage  directions  are  to  be  taken  seriously  then 
they  mean  that  Clare  was  willing  to  become  the 
mistress  of  Malise  for  much  the  same  reason  that 
a  rat  will  fight  in  a  corner.  But  if  her  words  mean 
what  they  would  seem  to  mean,  surely,  given  her 
character  and  remembering  what  she  has  endured, 
her  surrender  to  Malise  will  not  be  accompanied 
by  any  signs  of  desperation  at  all,  but  in  sheer 
reaction,  if  nothing  else,  by  every  sign  of  jubila- 
tion and  relief. 

The  attitude  of  Malise  towards  Clare  does  not 
appear  to  have  undergone  any  change  at  all;  he 
is  not  any  more  in  love  with  her  in  the  third  act 
than  he  was  in  the  first  act,  when,  indeed,  his  love 
had  a  dubious  aspect.  There  is  no  warmth  in  the 
man,  no  glow.  He  is  cold,  not  with  the  hard, 
sharp,  tingling  cold  of  ice,  but  with  the  flabby 
chill  of  a  dead  fish.  When  George  Dedmond  in- 
stitutes divorce  proceedings,  citing  Malise  as  co- 

[138] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

respondent,  the  fellow  goes  to  pieces,  and  whines 
and  bleats  to  his  charwoman  because  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  review  on  which  he  is  employed 
propose  to  dismiss  him.  They  have  some  scruples 
against  writers  who  become  involved  in  scandals. 
The  charwoman  informs  Clare  of  Malise's  misery, 
and  she,  knowing  that  her  husband  will  abandon 
the  suit  if  she  leaves  Malise,  goes  quietly  from 
his  flat.  Her  next  appearance  is  in  a  restaurant, 
largely  patronized  by  prostitutes.  One  does  not 
know  what  has  happened  to  her  in  the  meantime, 
but  it  is  plain  that  she  must  have  suffered  acutely, 
for  this  delicately  bred  woman,  sensitive  to  the 
point  of  morbidity  about  sexual  relationships,  has 
decided  to  become  a  prostitute!  We  see  her  en- 
tering "The  Gascony"  for  the  first  time  when  the 
fourth  act  begins.  A  young  man,  ordinary, 
decent,  and  uncommonly  lustful,  makes  overtures 
to  her,  treating  her  with  kindliness  when  he  dis- 
covers that  he  is  her  first  customer.  His  kindli- 
ness helps  to  reconcile  her  to  her  position,  and 
she  prepares  to  leave  the  restaurant  with  him. 
While  he  is  paying  the  bill  two  coarse  men  leer 
at  her,  and  one  of  them  accosts  her,  making  an 
appointment  for  the  following  evening.     As  she 

[139] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

watches  his  coarse  face,  inflamed  with  lust,  she 
realises  the  horror  of  the  life  she  is  about  to  lead, 
and  suddenly  makes  a  decision — she  takes  a  bottle 
of  poison  from  her  dress,  pours  its  contents  into 
a  wine-glass,  and  drinks  it.  She  dies  while  some 
sportsmen  in  an  adjoining  room  play  "the  last 
notes  of  an  old  song  'This  Day  a  Stag  Must  Die' 
on  a  horn."     And  that  is  the  end  of  the  play. 

It  seems  to  me  to  be  incredible  that  Clare  Ded- 
mond  should  have  gone  to  that  restaurant  to  sell 
herself  to  any  casual  purchaser.  It  seems  to  me, 
given  her  nature,  incredible  that  she  should  even 
have  thought  of  such  a  way  of  life  or  that,  having 
thought  of  it,  she  should  not  instantly  poison  her- 
self rather  than  endure  it.  Mr.  Galsworthy  insists 
throughout  the  play  on  her  exceptional  sensitive- 
ness about  sex-relationships.  I  think  that  psycho- 
logically he  has  over-stated  this  sensitiveness,  but, 
assuming  that  he  has  not  done  so,  is  it  conceivable 
that  a  woman  who  shivers  and  twitches  her  hands 
when  she  is  kissed  by  a  man  whom  she  likes  will 
consent  to  put  on  fine  clothes  and  go  to  a  notorious 
restaurant  and  sit  at  a  table  while  men  inspect  her? 
...  (I  leave  out  of  consideration  such  questions 
as:  "Where  did  she  obtain  the  line  clothes?"  "How 

[140] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

did  she  acquire  her  knowledge  of  'The  Gas- 
cony'?  ")  If  she  were  prepared  to  endure  that 
last  of  all  defilements,  why  did  she  run  away  from 
her  husband?  If  she  were  capable  of  selling  her 
embraces,  why  did  she  shiver  and  twitch  when 
Malise  kissed  her?  George  Dedmond  was  not  a 
"bad"  man.  He  did  not  ill-treat  her  nor  was  he 
faithless  to  her.  He  insisted,  indeed,  on  sexual 
submissions,  but  one  has  difficulty  in  believing 
that  her  horror  of  these,  "unless  I  feel,"  was  very 
strong  since  she  was  willing  to  suffer  the  casual 
amours  of  "The  Gascony."  There  would  have 
been  something  pitiable  in  her  if,  after  leaving 
Malise,  she  had  returned  to  George.  There  would 
have  been  something  tragical  in  her  if,  reluctant 
to  return  to  George,  she  had  killed  herself  when 
she  found  that  she  could  not  maintain  herself  in 
decency.  But  there  is  nothing  either  pitiable  or 
tragical  in  the  end  devised  for  her  by  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy. It  is  an  arranged  and  schemed  destiny 
that  overwhelms  Clare  Dedmond,  arranged  and 
schemed  not  by  Circumstance  but  by  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy, and  having  no  relation  whatever  to  the 
nature  of  the  woman.  Mr.  Galsworthy  wanted 
to  poison  her  in  "The  Gascony,"  and  so  he  thrust 

[141] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

her  into  the  restaurant  in  plain  disregard  of  her 
character  and  of  common  facts. 

There  is  a  phrase  in  the  play  which  is  intended 
to  illuminate  Clare's  nature.  "You're  too  fine," 
Mrs.  Fullarton  says  to  her,  "and  you're  not  fine 
enough  to  endure  things."  How  can  one  be  too 
fine  to  endure  a  thing  and  yet  not  fine  enough 
to  endure  it?  And,  having  begun  to  question  in 
that  fashion,  one  goes  on  again  to  wonder  why  she 
married  her  husband.  "Five  years"  (of  mar- 
riage), she  says  to  her  husband,  "and  four  of  them 
like  this!"  Here  is  no  case  of  slow  transformation 
of  love  into  dislike  or  of  instant  disillusionment. 
Clare  does  not  suddenly  discover  or  slowly  dis- 
cover that  George  is  not  the  sort  of  man  she  had 
imagined  him  to  be,  for  he  remains  throughout  the 
play  exactly  the  sort  of  man  he  was  when  she  was 
wooed  and  married  by  him.  He  did  not  become 
prosaic,  unimaginative,  and  coarse  after  marriage: 
he  was  always  like  that;  and  Clare,  so  sensitive 
as  she  was,  must  have  been  jarred  by  him  as  much 
before  marriage  as  she  was  a  year  after  marriage. 
There  is  no  suggestion  in  the  play  that  she  married 
for  money.  Had  she  done  so,  surely  she  would, 
when  we  remember  the  depths  to  which  she  was 

[142] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

subsequently  prepared  to  descend,  have  borne  his 
dullness  and  coarseness,  not  gladly,  perhaps,  but 
with  fortitude? 

The  processes  of  attraction  and  repulsion  are  so 
complicated  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  where  one 
begins  and  the  other  ends,  but  this  difficulty  is 
hardly  to  be  experienced  in  cases  where  the  per- 
sonalities are  so  marked  and  divergent  as  were 
the  personalities  of  Clare  and  George  Dedmond. 
If  one  were  to  take  a  man  like  Squire  Western  in 
"Tom  Jones"  and  marry  him  to  Melisande  in  "Pel- 
leas  et  Melisande,"  one  could  prophesy  with  some 
certainty  what  would  be  the  result  of  such  a  mar- 
riage. It  would  be  disastrous.  Left  to  the  or- 
dinary processes  of  nature,  however,  such  a  mar- 
riage would  not  take  place  at  all. 

But  the  difficulty  of  fathoming  Clare's  rela- 
tionships does  not  end  with  her  husband.  It  is 
equally  difficult  to  understand  her  attitude  towards 
Malise.  What  attracted  her  to  this  extraordi- 
narily ill-bred  man  who  sneers  openly  at  her  rela- 
tives and  friends,  mocking  and  insulting  them  to 
her  and  to  their  faces?  .The  Dedmonds,  parents 
and  son,  are  dense,  but  they  are  decent.  They  live- 
by  rule  because  they  cannot  live  by  any  other 

[143] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

means.  It  is  not  their  fault  that  they  cannot  under- 
stand Clare's  point  of  view,  any  more  than  it  is 
the  fault  of  a  blind  man  that  he  falls  over  an 
obstacle  which  he  cannot  see.  Malise  regards 
them  as  malignant  people,  deliberately  imprison- 
ing an  aspiring  woman.  His  vision  of  them  is  as 
narrow  as  is  theirs  of  him,  and,  since  he  has 
not  got  their  breeding  or  kindliness,  his  conduct 
is  caddish  where  theirs  is  merely  stupid.  There 
is  no  magnitude  or  charity  in  this  man.  He  spends 
his  days  and  nights  in  writing  petulant  screeds  in 
the  style  of  Thomas  Carlyle:  windy  stuff,  blowing 
out  of  a  noisome  mind;  and  when  he  has  induced 
one  helpless,  incompetent  woman  to  follow  his 
creed  he  fails  her  completely. 

The  last  sentences  of  the  play  show  that  Mr. 
Galsworthy  had  set  his  mind  on  Clare's  death  in 
disregard  of  the  probabilities.  Clare,  having 
swallowed  the  poison,  is  lying  back  in  her  chair, 
presumably  dead. 

The  Young  Man  has  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands; 
Arnaud  is  crossing  himself  fervently;  the  Languid 
Lord  stands  gazing  with  one  of  the  dropped 
gardenias  twisted  in  his  fingers;  and  the  woman 
bending  over  Clare,  kisses  her  forehead. 
[144] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

That  is  a  piece  of  theatricality.  It  has  no  re- 
lationship to  real  things.  Those  people,  in  life, 
would  not  have  stood  about  in  sentimental  attitudes 
watching  a  woman  die  of  poison.  The  young 
man  would  have  flown  for  a  doctor;  the  waiter 
would  have  rushed  off  for  an  emetic;  the  languid 
lord  would  have  lost  his  languid  airs  in  his  desire 
to  get  away  from  the  restaurant  in  fear  lest  he 
might  be  summoned  as  a  witness  at  the  inquest;  and 
the  woman  would  promptly  have  had  hysterics. 

IV 

He  seems  to  be  most  impressed,  in  viewing  the 
human  scene,  by  the  sense  of  property  which  he 
discovers  in  mankind.  In  his  best  work,  the  novels 
of  the  Forsyte  Saga,  beginning  with  "The  Man  of 
Property"  and  ending  with  "To  Let"  one  finds  him 
attributing  this  sense  to  human  beings  to  a  degree 
which  is,  in  my  belief,  entirely  excessive.  Soames 
Forsyte,  "the  man  of  property,"  is  portrayed  to  us 
as  a  man  who  regards  all  things,  human  and  other- 
wise, as  things  to  be  owned.  His  wife  is  a  piece 
of  property  just  as  a  picture  or  a  dog  is.  When 
he  obtains  a  divorce  from  her  and  marries  a  young 

[145] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

French  girl,  Annette,  he  treats  the  latter  as  a 
piece  of  valuable  property  useful  for  the  purpose 
of  producing  a  still  more  valuable  piece  of  prop- 
erty; and  when  Annette  bears  a  daughter  to  him, 
he  is  left  exclaiming  almost  passionately  that  this 
child  is  his,  not  hers  .and  his,  but  his!  All  the 
members  of  the  Forsyte  family,  described  with 
great  particularity,  are  possessed  of  this  sense  of 
property,  but  it  is  more  highly  developed  in 
Soames  than  in  any  of  them.  Even  those  mem- 
bers of  it,  like  young  Jolyon  Forsyte,  who  break 
with  the  family  tradition,  concentrate  on  this  prop- 
erty point.  They  only  differ  from  the  rest  of  the 
family  in  being  anti-,  rather  than  pro-,  property. 
None  of  them  seems  to  be  indifferent  to  property. 
The  dominating  influence  in  their  lives,  either 
for  happiness  or  for  misery,  is  property.  Mr. 
Galsworthy  states  of  them  that  as  they  watched  the 
funeral  of  Queen  Victoria,  they  felt  that  they  were 
burying  more  history  for  their  money  than  had 
ever  been  buried  before.  One  of  the  Forsyte 
women  loves  the  statement  of  Christ  that  "In  My 
Father's  house  are  many  mansions"  because  it  com- 
forts her  sense  of  property.  Most  of  the  conflict 
in   the   Galsworthy   novels   springs   from   the   re- 

[146] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

actions  of  the  characters  to  this  sense,  and  it  is 
laboured  to  the  point  of  attenuation.  The  tempera- 
mental differences  between  Soames  and  Irene 
Forsyte  in  "The  Man  of  Property"  are  obscurely 
stated,  and  still  more  obscurely  stated  in  the 
dramatized  version  of  their  relationship  called 
"The  Fugitive,"  in  which  Soames  and  Irene  become 
George  and  Clare  Dedmond,  and  Bosinney,  the 
architect-lover,  becomes  Malise,  the  journalist- 
lover.  It  is  true  that  the  differences  which  break 
a  marriage  are  sometimes  the  result  of  funda- 
mental things  which  cannot  be  described  with  the 
clarity  of  the  items  in  an  auctioneer's  catalogue; 
but  the  business  of  an  artist  is  to  make  obscure 
things  plain  and  understandable,  and  the  success 
of  his  work  depends  upon  the  way  in  which  he 
impresses  his  readers  with  the  vagueness  and  ob- 
scurity of  these  things  and  yet  at  the  same  time 
makes  them  realize  how  substantial  they  are. 
Soames  and  Irene  Forsyte  may  not  be  able  to  say 
why  they  cannot  live  together,  but  Mr.  Galsworthy 
must  be  able  to  do  so  and  he  must  empower  his 
readers  to  do  so,  too.  A  novelist  gives  a  sense  of 
inarticulateness  in  a  character,  not  by  making  him 
so  inarticulate  that  the  readers  cannot  hear  or 

[147] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

understand  a  word  he  is  saying,  but  by  making 
his  inarticulateness  articulate.  The  danger  into 
which  many  writers  tumble  headlong  is  that  they 
will  spend  all  their  energies  on  getting  the  de- 
tails right  and  will  leave  the  general  effect  ob- 
scure. One  sees  signs  of  this  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
work.  He  is  so  busy  endowing  his  people  with  a 
sense  of  property  that  he  occasionally  omits  to  en- 
dow them  with  a  sense  of  humanity.  If  one  com- 
pares the  Forsyte  novels,  say,  "In  Chancery,"  with 
Mrs.  Edith  Wharton's  latest  book,  "The  Age  of  In- 
nocence," one  discovers  that  in  each  case,  the  theme 
is  concerned  with  the  institution  of  the  family,  with 
the  tribal  instinct  which  makes  the  majority  of 
minds  seek  identity  rather  than  dissimilarity.  But 
in  Mrs.  Wharton's  book,  this  tribal  instinct  is  hu- 
manly expressed,  whereas  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  it  is 
not.  I  recognize  Mrs.  Wharton's  people  as  human 
beings,  but  I  am  sceptical  about  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
people.  Old  Mrs.  Mingott,  in  "The  Age  of  Inno- 
cence," has  affinity  with  old  Jolyon  Forsyte  in  "The 
Man  of  Property"  and  "The  Indian  Summer  of  a 
Forsyte."  (He  is  the  most  human  figure  in  the 
Saga.)  But  the  rest  of  the  cast  in  the  Forsyte 
Saga  has  less  relevance  to  humanity  than  the  rest 

[148] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

of  the  cast  in  "The  Age  of  Innocence,"  and  the  rea- 
son is,  I  think,  that  Mr.  Galsworthy  has  allowed  his 
theory  to  get  the  better  of  his  people,  whereas 
Mrs.  Wharton,  whatever  her  theory  may  be,  has 
^kept  her  eye  very  steadfastly  on  human  beings. 
The  Countess  Olenska  in  "The  Age  of  Innocence" 
has  verisimilitude  which  is  absent  from  the  figure 
of  Irene  Forsyte  in  "The  Man  of  Property"  or 
Clare  Dedmond  in  "The  Fugitive."  We  can  com- 
prehend Ellen  Olenska,  but  Irene  Forsyte  utterly 
eludes  usJ&Jen 


One  entertains  oneself  with  noting  how  differ- 
ently an  experience  of  life  presents  itself  to  Mr. 
Galsworthy  from  the  way  in  which  it  presents  it- 
self to  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  Mr.  Galsworthy  sends 
Falder,  in  his  play  "Justice,"  to  prison  and  flattens 
him  out.  Mr.  £haw  sends  Margaret  Knox  and 
Bobby  Gilbert,  in  "Fannie's  First  Play,"  to  prison 
and  amazingly  enlarges  their  lives.  What  utterly 
depresses  Mr.  Galsworthy,  stimulates  and  even  ex- 
alts Mr.  Shaw.  If  Mr.  Galsworthy  tortures  us  to 
the  point  at  which  we  wish  to  rush  out  of  the  theatre 

[149] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

and  raze  Wormwood  Scrubbs  and  Pentonville  to 
the  ground,  Mr.  Shaw  causes  us  to  feel  that  each 
of  us  might  be  considerably  benefitted  by  a  sojourn 
there.  Mr.  Galsworthy  sees  a  goal  as  a  place 
where  thought  is  destroyed  or  embittered:  Mr. 
Shaw  sees  it  as  a  place  where  thought  is  provoked 
and  clarified;  and  between  them,  a  simple-minded 
person  cannot  make  up  his  mind  whether  to  sub- 
scribe to  the  funds  of  the  Howard  League  for 
Penal  Reform  or  to  advocate  penal  servitude  for 
every  one  in  the  interests  of  Higher  Thought.  Ad- 
versity, says  Mr.  Galsworthy,  knocks  a  man  down. 
Adversity,  says  Mr.  Shaw,  braces  him  up.  The 
first  statement  may  fill  a  man  with  pity,  but  the 
latter  is  more  likely  to  make  a  hero  of  him. 

VI 

I  like  "The  Country  House"  and  "Five  Tales" 
and  "To  Let"  better  than  anything  else  that  Mr. 
Galsworthy  has  written.  The  human  sense  is  more 
truly  felt  in  these  books  than  in  any  others  that  he 
has  done.  There  are  few  figures  in  modern  fic- 
tion so  tender  and  beautiful  as  Mrs.  Pendyce  in 
"The   Country   House"   and   few   figures   so   im- 

[150] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

mensely  impressive  and  indomitable  as  the  old  man 
in  the  story  called  "The  Stoic"  which  is  the  first  of 
the  "Five  Tales."    The  craftsmanship  of  "To  Let" 
is  superb — this  novel  is,  perhaps,  the  most  techni- 
cally-correct  book   of   our   time — but   its   human 
value  is  even  greater  than  its  craftsmanship.     In  a 
very  vivid  fashion,  Mr.  Galsworthy  shows  the  pass- 
ing of  a  tradition  and  an  age.     He  leaves  Soames 
Forsyte  in  lonely  age,  but  he  does  not  leave  him 
entirely  without  sympathy;  for  this  muddleheaded 
man,  unable  to  win  or  to  keep  affection  on  any  but 
commercial  terms,  contrives  in  the  end  to  win  the 
pity  and  almost  the  love  of  the  reader  who  has 
followed  his  varying  fortunes  through  their  stupid 
career.     The  frustrate  love  of  Fleur  and  Jon  is 
certainly  one  of  the  tenderest  things  in  modern 
fiction.     Mr.    Galsworthy   has   a   love    of   beauty 
which  permeates  everything  that  he  writes  and  rec- 
onciles his  more  critical  readers  to  his  dubious 
characterization.     I   suppose  the  truth   about  his 
work  is  that  he  has  not  sufficiently  disciplined  his 
feelings  and,  for  this  reason,  allows  his  sympathies 
with  his  suffering  people  to  swamp  his  judgments. 
He  is,  in  every  act  and  thought,  a  chivalrous  man, 
and  his  instinct  is,  not  to  examine  the  facts  of  a 

[151] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

case,  but  to  rush  instantly  and  hotly  to  the  defence 
of  the  seemingly  defenceless.  An  artist  is  never 
indifferent  to  the  wrongs  of  men,  but  his  artistry 
prevents  him  from  making  mistakes  about  the  per- 
sons who  are  suffering  the  wrongs.  One's  fear  is 
that  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  inclined  to  allow  his  phi- 
lanthropy to  take  the  place  of  his  artistry.  Even 
in  that  fine  book,  "The  Country  House,"  he  some- 
times makes  a  formula  or  a  trick  out  of  some  fine, 
instinctive  sentiment.  In  the  fourth  chapter  of 
part  II,  Mr.  Pendyce,  during  a  period  of  stress, 
treads  on  a  spaniel's  foot. 

The   spaniel   yelped.     "D n  the  dog!     Oh,   poor 

fellow,  John!"  said  Mr.  Pendyce. 

Now,  in  those  words,  one  has  exemplified  the  acute 
penetration  into  people's  minds  and  emotions  which 
is  discoverable  in  Mr.  Galsworthy;  but  he  is  not 
content  to  leave  the  incident  in  its  simplicity  and 
nature.  Before  we  have  reached  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  that  instinctive  utterance  by  Mr.  Pendyce 
has  become  a  rather  threadbare  literary  trick  by 
Mr.  Galsworthy.  Mr.  Pendyce  treads  on  the  dog 
again  two  pages  later,  and  Mr.  Pendyce  repeats 

himself  exactly:     "D n   the   dog!     Oh,   poor 

fellow,  John!"     And  five  pages  later,  he  treads  on 

[152] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

the  spaniel  a  third  time,  and  a  third  time  he  says, 

"D n  the  dog!    Oh,  poor  fellow,  John!"     It  is 

obvious,  surely,  that  on  the  first  occasion,  Mr. 
Galsworthy  made  Mr.  Pendyce  speak  from  his 
heart,  but  on  the  second  and  third  occasions  he 
made  him  speak  like  a  ventriloquist's  doll.  One 
can  find  many  similarly  inapt  things  even  in  this 
book,  where  Mr.  Galsworthy  keeps  very  close  to 
humanity.  Mr.  Pendyce  ejaculates,  on  hearing  that 
his  son  has  gone  after  illicit  love,  "What  on  earth 
made  me  send  George  to  Eton?"  when  he  himself 
had  been  educated  at  another  school.  One  knows 
what  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  here  trying  to  do,  to  express 
the  love  of  tradition  and  custom  which  governs  the 
life  of  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Pendyce,  but  he  does  not 
achieve  the  effect  by  such  speeches.  The  reader 
feels  certain  that  whatever  else  Mr.  Pendyce  may 
have  said  on  that  occasion,  he  did  not  say,  "What 
on  earth  made  me  send  George  to  Eton?"  Too 
many  of  his  people  make  impotent  gestures,  and  it 
is  remarkable  that  these  important  people  are 
nearly  always  his  most  idealistic  characters.  Such 
an  one  is  Gregory  Vigil  in  "The  Country  House" 
who  constantly  clutches  his  forehead  and  tilts  his 
face  towards  the  sky  and  generally  strikes  attitudes 

[153] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

of  despair  until  one  begins  to  feel  that  he  is  the 
weakest  of  weaklings.  And  it  is  extraordinary  to 
observe  what  havoc  Mr.  Galsworthy,  ordinarily  a 
very  fastidious  writer,  sometimes  makes  of  the 
English  language.  In  "The  Man  of  Property"  he 
gives  a  detailed  description  of  Mrs.  Septimus 
Small  in  the  course  of  which  he  states  that  "an  in- 
numerable pout  clung  all  over"  her  face,  and  on 
the  page  immediately  succeeding  the  one  on  which 
that  queer  description  occurs,  he  states  that  Mrs. 
Small  "owned  three  canaries,  the  cat  Tommy,  and 
half  a  parrot — in  common  with  her  sister  Hester. 
.  .  ."  We  may,  perhaps,  pass  "an  innumerable 
pout"  as  an  impressionistic  phrase,  but  it  is  quite 
clear  that  carelessness  caused  Mr.  Galsworthy 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Septimus  Small  owned  "half  a 
parrot — in  common  with  her  sister  Hester"  when 
what  he  wished  to  say  was  that  Hester  and  she 
were  joint  owners  of  a  parrot!  He  sometimes  uses 
images  which  are  almost  ludicrous.  In  "Saints 
Progress,"  we  get  this  curious  account  of  an  old 
woman  in  tears: 

A  little  pasty  woman  with  a  pinched  yellowish  face 
was  already  sitting  there,  so  still,  and  seeming  to  see  so 
little,  that  Noel  wondered  of  what  she  could  be  thinking. 

[154] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

While  she  watched,  the  woman's  face  began  puckering, 
and  tears  rolled  slowly  down,  trickling  from  pucker  to 
pucker.  .  .  . 

The  italics  are  mine. 

It  is  his  sincerity  and  his  chivalry  and  his  pity 
and  his  sense  of  beauty,  a  little  too  conscious,  per- 
haps, which,  much  more  than  his  powers  of  thought, 
make  us  read  his  novels  and  witness  the  perform- 
ance of  his  plays.  These  qualities  tend  to  become 
obsessions  in  him  with  the  result  that  his  sense  of 
proportion  and  his  verity  are  disorganized  and  he 
is  led  into  sentimentalities,  some  of  which,  on  first 
sight,  have  an  impressive  appearance  which  is  not 
maintained  after  closer  scrutiny.  In  one  of  his 
plays,  "A  Bit  o'  Love,"  he  makes  the  chief  charac- 
ter, a  young  clergyman,  end  the  play  with  this 
prayer: 

God,  of  the  moon  and  the  sun;  of  joy  and  beauty,  of 
loneliness  and  sorrow — Give  me  strength  to  go  on,  till 
I  love  every  living  thing. 

That  is  a  prayer  which  sounds  impressive  until 
it  is  critically  considered.  It  is  not  possible  for 
a  man  to  love  every  living  thing.  There  are  cer- 
tain things  which  he  hates  with  his  mind  and  cer- 
tain things  which  he  hates  with  his  instincts,  and  it 

[155] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

is  either  very  difficult  or  impossible  for  him  to 
control  those  hatreds.  The  best  he  can  hope  for 
is  the  power  to  restrain  his  hatred  from  active 
demonstrations.  There  are  hatreds  which  he  ought 
to  possess,  hatreds  which  Mr.  Galsworthy  himself 
possesses  in  a  high  degree;  hatred  of  cruel  men, 
hatred  of  oppressive  men,  hatred  of  men  who  pro- 
mote discord  out  of  sheer  devilish  delight;  but 
these  hatreds  are  feeble  in  comparison  with  the 
instinctive  hatreds  most  of  us  have  without  under- 
standing why  we  have  them.  To  pray  for  strength 
to  go  on  until  one  loves  every  living  thing  is,  there- 
fore, to  pray  for  the  moon,  and  exalted  desires 
which  are  insusceptible  of  realization  become 
banalites.  There  are  times,  in  his  anger  at  coarse- 
ness and  cruel  insult  and  lack  of  pity,  when  Mr. 
Galsworthy  attributes  a  degree  of  ruffianliness  to 
people  which  is  lacking  in  verity.  In  "Saint's 
Progress,"  he  causes  "two  big  loutish  boys"  to  jeer 
at  the  old  clergyman,  Pierson,  whose  daughter  has 
had  a  war-baby  without  being  married.  The  two 
"loutish  boys"  shout  after  him,  "Wot  price  the 
little  barstard?"  Now,  I  simply  do  not  believe 
that  such  a  thing  happened  or  could  have  happened 
in  London  during  the  war.     Cruelty  did  not  mani- 

[156] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

fest  itself  in  just  that  way,  and  it  is  here,  I  think, 
that  one  discovers  Mr.  Galsworthy's  chief  dis- 
ability, the  fact  that  his  powers  of  observation  are 
not  so  acute  as  one  might  reasonably  expect  them 
to  be.  There  is  an  old  saying  that  the  looker-on 
sees  most  of  the  game — and  there  is  some  truth  in 
it;  but  it  is  true  also  that  the  looker-on  may  be 
totally  ignorant  of,  or  misinformed  about,  the 
game,  whereas  those  who  are  engaged  in  it  have  a 
fairly  comprehensive  notion  of  what  they  are  do- 
ing. Mr.  Galsworthy  gives  me  the  impression  of 
being  a  looker-on  at  the  game  rather  than  a  partic- 
ipator in  it,  and  although  he  is  sometimes  a  very 
impassioned  spectator,  yet  he  suffers  from  the  dis- 
ability of  all  spectators  that  they  are  not  clearly 
instructed  in  the  principles  and  the  prejudices  of 
the  contest.  He  is  praying  for  strength  to  love 
every  living  thing  when  he  should  be  praying  for 
the  power  to  distinguish  between  what  is  lovable 
and  what  is  detestable,  between  true  things  and 
false  things.  There  are  few  people  who  can  de- 
pict the  helplessness  of  dull  men  so  skilfully  and 
movingly  as  Mr.  Galsworthy  can.  I  doubt 
whether  any  of  his  contemporaries  could  so  reveal- 
ingly  describe  the  state  of  mind  of  a  man,  spiritu- 

[157] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

ally  imperceptive  and  puzzled  by  his  inability  to 
understand,  as  Mr.  Galsworthy  in  his  novel  "In 
Chancery"  has  described  Soames  Forsyte  after  he 
has  obtained  a  divorce  from  his  first  wife.  The 
dumb  animal  bewilderment  of  this  man,  still  in 
love  with  Irene  but  utterly  confounded  by  her  com- 
plete revulsion  from  him,  is  done  with  the  most  ex- 
traordinary penetration;  and  it  is  scenes  such  as 
this,  which  cause  his  readers  all  the  more  to  marvel 
at  his  obsessions  and  their  attendant  failures. 

One  rises  from  a  consideration  of  his  work  in 
the  belief  that  he  pities  mankind,  but  does  not  love 
it.  He  is  a  spectator  of  our  struggles  rather  than 
a  comrade  in  them.  He  stands  at  the  side  of  the 
road  or  perhaps  on  an  eminence  a  little  way  off 
and  watches  the  procession  as  it  goes  by.  We  feel 
certain  that  if  we  are  in  trouble  he  will  display 
signs  of  sorrow  for  us,  but  we  are  equally  certain 
that  he  will  never  share  our  common  qualities  and 
faults.  Rabelais  would  have  been  self-conscious 
in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Galsworthy,  had  they  been 
contemporaries,  and  Mr.  Galsworthy  might  have 
despised,  would  certainly  have  been  uncomfortable 
with  that  foul  physician  who,  nevertheless,  cor- 
responded more  closely  to  this  various  clay  we 

[158] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

call  mankind,  would  have  known  and  understood 
more  certainly  the  ups  and  downs  of  human  char- 
acter, the  mixture  of  coarseness  and  refinement,  of 
falsity  and  faith,  of  chivalry  and  treachery,  of 
generosity  and  meanness,  of  selfishness  and  unself- 
ishness, of  rare  and  common,  than  Mr.  Galsworthy 
is  ever  likely  to  do.  Mr.  Hardy,  in  a  preface  to 
"Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles"  declares  that  "a  novel 
is  an  impression,  not  an  argument"  and  in  those 
eight  words  has  summarized  the  whole  business  of 
story-telling.  Mr.  Galsworthy  can  tell  a  story 
very  skilfully.  His  technique  is  remarkable,  as 
any  one  who  has  read  "To  Let"  or  seen  a  perform- 
ance of  "Loyalties"  can  testify;  but  there  are  too 
many  occasions  when  he  seems  to  have  let  go  his 
hold  en  reality  and  to  be  writing  out  of  dim  mem- 
ories which  are  growing  dimmer.  His  characters 
resemble  people  who  are  hurriedly  seen  through  a 
window  by  one  who  is  ignorant  of  their  identity 
and  anxious,  chiefly,  to  be  at  home.  They  are 
making  gestures  and  their  lips  move,  but  the  hasty 
footfarer  outside  cannot  hear  what  they  are  saying 
and  he  sees  only  the  gestures,  incomplete,  perhaps, 
but  does  not  know  why  they  are  made;  and  because 
he  knows  so  little,  he  is  likely  to  misunderstand  all. 

[159] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

I  imagine  that  when  Mr.  Galsworthy  goes  into  a 
garden,  his  delight  in  it  is  dashed  by  the  thought 
that  somewhere  near  at  hand  a  thrush  is  killing  a 
snail!   .  .  . 


[160] 


GEORGE  MOORE 


I  was  in  Dublin  on  the  day  when  the  news  of  the 
Battle  of  Jutland  was  announced  in  such  abrupt 
terms  that  most  people  imagined  the  British  Fleet 
had  been  irretrievably  defeated.  The  affairs  of 
the  Abbey  Theatre,  of  which  I  was  then  in  control, 
had  been  brought  to  a  pause  because  of  the  military 
regulations  imposed  upon  the  city  after  the  Easter 
Rising,  and  Mr.  Moore,  new  from  London,  asked 
me  to  employ  some  of  my  leisure  in  making  a 
reconciliation  between  Lady  Gregory  and  Mr. 
Yeats  on  the  one  hand  and  himself  on  the  other. 
I  foolishly  consented  to  see  what  could  be  done, 
chiefly  because  of  the  innocent  wonder  which  I  de- 
tected in  Mr.  Moore  at  the  fact  that  any  one  could 
possibly  take  offence  at  anything  he  might  say, 
however  revelatory  of  private  affairs  it  might  be; 
and  I  spent  some  time  in  the  pursuit  of  peace. 
Lady  Gregory  declared  that  she  had  no  feeling 
against  Mr.  Moore  because  of  what  he  had  said 

[161] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

about  her  in  his  trilogy,  "Hail  and  Farewell,"  but 
that  she  could  never  forgive  the  insults  it  contained 
to  Mr.  Yeats.  Mr.  Yeats,  endeavouring  to  think 
deeply  about  the  Rising,  declared  that  he  had  for- 
gotten, if  indeed  he  had  ever  remembered,  the  in- 
sults to  himself  in  the  trilogy,  but  that  he  could  not 
pardon  those  offered  to  Lady  Gregory.  Moore 
had  broken  bread  in  her  house,  and  then  had  gone 
away  and  made  fun  of  her!  Worse  than  that,  he 
had  belittled  her  work.  He  had  said  that  her 
plays  were  not  great  plays  and  that  her  "Kiltartan" 
dialect  was  not  the  dialect  of  the  people  of  Ireland, 
but  a  tortured,  unrhylhmic  invention  of  her 
own!  ...  I  proposed  to  them  that  they  should 
pool  their  pardons  and  receive  him  into  the  fold 
again,  but  my  proposal  was  not  accepted,  and  so  I 
set  off  from  Lady  Gregory's  lodgings  in  Dublin  to 
tell  Mr.  Moore,  staying  in  the  Shelbourne  Hotel, 
of  the  failure  of  my  mission.  On  the  way,  I  en- 
countered newspaper  boys,  carrying  placards  on 
which  was  printed  the  news  of  the  Battle  of  Jut- 
land. When  I  got  to  the  hotel  and  was  shown  into 
Mr.  Moore's  private  sitting-room,  I  found  assem- 
bled there,  Mr.  Moore,  white  with  anger  and  dis- 
may, "A.  E.,"  "John  Eglinton"  (William  Magee) 

[162] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

and  the  late  W.  F.  Bailey,  a  Land  Commissioner, 
a  Privy  Councillor  and  a  Trustee  of  the  Abbey 
Theatre,  who  had  the  most  extensive  acquaintance 
of  any  man  I  have  ever  known.  Mr.  Moore  was 
seated  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looking  very  like 
a  portrait  of  himself,  facing  his  friends,  who  were 
huddled  together  on  a  sofa  in  the  shadow  as  if 
they  were  three  misbehaving  schoolboys  receiving 
a  severe  rebuke  from  their  master.  I  could  not 
tell  Mr.  Moore  at  that  moment  of  the  result  of  my 
mission,  and  in  the  excitement  of  the  subsequent 
argument  I  forgot  to  do  so,  but  I  doubt  whether  he 
was  then  in  a  mood  to  care  whether  he  was  forgiven 
or  not. 


II 


It  is  several  years  now  since  that  day  when  I 
heard  Mr.  Moore  haranguing  Mr.  Russell  and  Mr. 
Magee  and  Mr.  Bailey  on  the  Battle  of  Jutland,  but 
my  recollection  of  the  occasion  is  very  vivid,  partly 
because  I  have  a  good  memory  for  things  which 
interest  me  (and  none  at  all  for  things  in  which  I 
am  not  interested)  but  chiefly  because  it  seemed  to 
me  that  on  that  day  Mr.  Moore  definitely  became 

[163] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

an  old  man.  His  age  is  not  stated  in  the  books  of 
reference,  for  Mr.  Moore  is  as  reticent  as  an  ac- 
tress on  this  point,  but  he  is  older  than  Mr.  Shaw, 
who  is  much  older  than  Mr.  Yeats  or  "A.  E."  It 
may  seem  singular  that  he,  so  destitute  of  reserve 
in  other  and  more  intimate  matters,  should  be  se- 
cretive on  this,  but  I  fancy  that  his  failure  to  pub- 
lish the  number  of  his  years  is  due  less  to  vanity 
than  to  inability  to  believe  that  he  is  as  old  as  they 
denote.  Judged  by  the  rules  of  arithmetic  his  age 
is — so  much;  but  judged  by  his  feelings,  it  is — 
much  less.  Facts  are  stubborn  things,  so  we  are 
told,  demanding  acceptance  and  unquestioned  ad- 
mission, but  Mr.  Moore  declines  to  accept  the  fact 
of  time:  he  ignores  it.  But  on  the  day  on  which 
the  news  of  the  Battle  of  Jutland  was  made  public, 
the  fact  of  time  ceased  to  be  ignorable,  and  Mr. 
Moore,  for  the  first  moment  in  his  life,  yielded  to 
his  years.  He  looked  old  and  he  talked  as  old 
men  talk.  There  was  a  note  of  panic  in  his  voice, 
of  frightened  urgency,  and  he  complained  bitterly 
of  those  who  saw  importance  in  a  mean  brawl  in 
Dublin,  but  remained  indifferent  to  an  event  which 
might  result  in  the  destruction  of  a  desirable  civili- 
zation.    I  doubt  whether  anything  in  the  world  had 

[164] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

ever  until  that  day  been  serious  to  Mr.  Moore  in 
the  sense  that  loss  and  suffering  and  great  grief 
are  serious.  I  am  certain  that  he  never  under- 
stood why  people  were  angry  with  him  because  of 
"Hail  and  Farewell."  The  resentment  manifested 
against  him  by  Lady  Gregory  and  Mr.  Yeats  was 
to  him  incomprehensibly  petty:  the  deeper  resent- 
ment of  other  people,  more  grievously  wounded 
by  his  revelations  which  they  declared  to  be  un- 
true, filled  him  with  astonishment.  The  spectacle 
of  life  was  so  much  of  a  spectacle  to  him  that  he 
could  not  conceive  of  it  as  anything  else  to  others. 
He  had  made  himself  so  completely,  not  a  partic- 
ipant in  affairs,  but  an  observer  of  them,  that  he 
had  lost  the  faculty  of  personal  feeling.  His  in- 
terest in  acts  and  motives  was  so  intense  that  he 
could  not  understand  any  one  objecting  to  his  pry- 
ing into  the  more  entertaining  of  their  private  re- 
lationships. Equally  difficult  was  it  for  him  to  un- 
derstand that  they  should  deeply  disrelish  the  idea 
of  having  their  affairs,  intimate  and  even  secret, 
used  as  material  for  a  book  by  Mr.  Moore.  Any 
human  experience,  he  seems  to  argue,  particularly 
when  narrated  in  his  exquisite  style,  is  of  value  to 
mankind,  and  it  must  have  seemed  to  him  that  there 

[165] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

was  something,  not  only  absurd,  but  also  disgrace- 
ful in  the  objection  many  people  had  to  the  pub- 
lication of  their  private  concerns.  Had  he  not 
paid  tribute  to  privacy  by  omitting  names  or  in- 
venting others  than  the  proper  ones?  True,  every- 
one knew  who  were  the  persons  portrayed,  but  was 
that  his  fault?  And  since  every  one  knew  already 
of  the  affairs,  what  possible  harm  could  there  be  in 
his  putting  them  into  perfect  and  publishable 
prose?  The  objection  raised  by  some  persons  that 
the  incidents  narrated  by  him  as  facts  were  pure  in- 
ventions was  frivolous!  What  was  truth?  Mr. 
Moore,  like  jesting  Pilate,  asked  the  question,  but 
did  not  wait  for  a  reply:  he  published  as  quickly 
as  he  could.  The  three  volumes  which  make  up 
"Hail  and  Farewell"  are  remarkable  and  have 
much  value,  but  it  is  necessary  to  remember  that 
Mr.  Moore  has  not  always  been  careful  in  them  to 
distinguish  between  the  historian  and  the  novelist, 
between  the  recorder  and  the  inventor.  There  are 
many  dull  passages  in  the  trilogy,  especially  those 
in  which  he  relates  his  experiences  with  his  kins- 
man, Mr.  Edward  Martyn,  a  charge  which  Mr. 
Moore  would  not  deny,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
proudly  admit,  for  he  insists  that  dullness  is  a 

[166] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

prominent  feature  of  all  great  books.  It  is  only 
the  newspapers  and  ephemeral  books  which  are  in- 
teresting from  beginning  to  end,  he  asserts — a  state- 
ment which  implies  that  Mr.  Moore  has  been  hap- 
pier in  his  newspapers  than  most  people  have. 
In  this  matter  of  privacies,  Mr.  Moore  was,  and 
still  is,  the  most  complete  and  consistent  of  com- 
munists. He  believes  in  private  property,  but  not 
in  private  feelings.  One  imagines  him,  in  the  days 
before  the  Battle  of  Jutland,  asking  in  puzzled 
fashion,  "What  do  you  mean  when  you  say  you 
feel  things?  What  is  feeling?  Why  should  it 
ever  be  private?'"  "This  lady  is  in  love  with  that 
gentleman  who  is  not  her  husband!  How  inter- 
esting! I  shall  write  a  book  about  their  love  for 
each  other.  They  may  object!  But  why?  Her 
husband's  feelings!  .  .  .  Now,  isn't  that  absurd!" 
And  so  on.  Miss  Susan  Mitchell,  in  a  very  en- 
tertaining, but  not  entirely  sympathetic  book,  en- 
titled "George  Moore,"  declares  that  he  seceded 
from  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  because  he  ob- 
jected to  the  secrecy  of  the  confessional.  His  sins, 
he  considered,  were  so  absorbingly  interesting 
that  they  ought  to  be  publicly  confessed  rather  than 
confided  to  an  undivulging  priest.     The  flaw  in 

[167] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

Miss  Mitchell's  argument  is  her  assumption  that 
Mr.  Moore  had  any  sins  to  confess!  .  .  . 

Ill 

But  on  this  day  when  the  news  of  the  Battle 
of  Jutland  was  announced,  Mr.  Moore  seemed,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  to  realize  that  men  and 
women  do  feel  and  suffer  and  bear  loss;  and  the 
discovery  instantly  aged  him.  The  War  which 
had  so  teasingly  disturbed  the  amenities  of  Ebury 
Street  became  in  a  moment  something  more  than 
an  irritating  scuffle  in  the  dark — it  became  an  im- 
mense disaster  which  might  make  amenities  for- 
ever impossible.  The  solidities  of  life  were  in 
process  of  dissolution.  Literary  style  amazingly 
mattered  less  than  the  power  of  the  commonest  gut- 
tersnipe to  kill.  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  in  the  preface 
to  "Heartbreak  House,"  exclaims,  "Imagine  ex- 
ulting in  the  death  of  Beethoven  because  Bill  Sykes 
dealt  him  his  death  blow!"  in  a  rebuke  adminis- 
tered to  the  people  who  rejoiced  in  the  news  of  ap- 
palling death-rolls  among  Germans  during  the  War. 
But  on  the  field  itself,  Beethoven  and  Bill  Sykes 
cease  to  be  Beethoven  and  Bill  Sykes  and  become, 

[168] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF  MY  ELDERS 

each,  a  very  frightened  man  with  a  rifle  and  bay- 
onet and  a  strong  desire  to  live.  In  that  dreadful 
encounter,  Bill  Sykes  would  not  be  thinking  to 
himself,  "Here  comes  Beethoven,  a  great  master 
of  music,  by  whom  it  will  be  an  honor  to  be 
killed!"  but  "'Ere  comes  a  bloody  'Un  who  will 
kill  me  unless  I  kill  'im!"  The  perception  of 
what  was  happening  in  Europe,  of  the  horrible  re- 
duction of  Beethovens  to  the  level  of  Sykeses,  of 
Shakespeares  to  the  level  of  Prussian  drill-ser- 
geants (for  they  had  to  come  down  to  those  levels 
if  they  were  to  have  any  hope  of  survival)  made 
an  old  man  of  Mr.  Moore.  He  threw  up  his  hands 
and  made  submission  to  his  years.  I  listened  to 
him  while  he  talked  volubly  and  bitterly  to  "A.  E." 
and  "John  Eglinton"  and  "Bill"  Bailey,  as  people 
called  him,  and  marvelled  to  find  him  displaying 
so  much  emotion  over  the  naval  disaster  and  its 
probable  consequences.  He  had  written  a  preface 
for  his  brother,  Colonel  Moore's  life  of  their  fa- 
ther, in  which  he  had  romantically  stated  that 
George  Henry  Moore,  his  father,  had  committed 
suicide  because  his  heart  was  broken  by  the  dis- 
honourable behaviour  of  politicians.  Colonel 
Moore  printed  the  preface,  but  denied  the  state- 

[169] 


SOxME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

ment  about  his  father,  to  which,  however,  George 
still  romantically  clings.  An  English  newspaper, 
The  Observer,  in  its  issue  for  Sunday,  April  10, 
1921,  printed  the  preface  which  Mr.  Moore  had 
written  for  a  new  book  to  be  published  very  soon 
thereafter.  In  this  preface,  he  very  interestingly 
described  the  way  in  which  he  was  educated,  and 
in  the  course  of  it  occurred  this  paragraph: 

He  was  unhappy  in  the  strife,  for  he  loved  his  father; 
his  father  was  always,  and  still  is,  the  intimate  and 
abiding  reality  of  his  life,  and  the  evening  that  his  fa- 
ther started  for  Ireland  for  the  last  time  is  quick  among 
his  memories.  George's  father  returned  from  the  front 
door  to  bid  his  son  good-bye,  and  in  obedience  to  a  sud- 
den impulse  he  took  a  sovereign  out  of  his  pocket  and 
put  it  into  the  boy's  hand,  and  went  away  to  his  death 
resolute,  for  he  had  come  to  see  that  his  death  was  the 
only  way  to  escape  from  his  embarrassments,  without 
injury  to  his  family,  and  I  can  imagine  him  walking 
about  the  lake  shores  bidding  them  good-bye  for  ever. 

I  suppose  that  if  George  Henry  Moore  were  to 
rise  from  the  grave  and  deny  that  he  had  died  by 
his  own  hand,  his  son  and  heir,  George,  would  mur- 
mur aggrievedly,  "You  know,  father,  you  are 
spoiling  a  very  charming  story!  .  .  ."  He  is  still 
sufficiently  insensitive  not  to  understand  that  life 

[170] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

is  something  more  than  material  for  the  story- 
teller's art — he  may,  perhaps  have  relapsed  from 
the  state  of  understanding  to  which  the  Battle  of 
Jutland  brought  him, — but  for  that  time,  at  all 
events  until  the  news  of  the  Battle  was  amended, 
George  Moore  knew  what  private  feelings  were, 
even  although  he  could  not  keep  them  to  himself. 
"A.  E.,"  looking  woolly  and  worried,  seemed  to  be 
completely  deprived  of  his  powers  of  speech  by 
Mr.  Moore's  angry  rhetoric.  "John  Eglinton,"  a 
scholarly  essayist  and  the  sanest  man  in  Dublin, 
having  much  respect  for,  but  no  delusion  about, 
the  ancient  Gaelic  literature  of  which  we  hear  so 
much  and  see  so  little,  remained  customarily  mum. 
Mr.  Bailey,  nervously  garrulous  as  a  rule,  ut- 
tered jerky,  but  inarticulate,  sounds  to  which  Mr. 
Moore  paid  absolutely  no  heed.  I  discreetly  sat 
in  a  corner  and  did  not  make  a  sound.  The  words 
flowed  steadily  from  Mr.  Moore's  lips — hot  de- 
nunciation of  the  Rising,  contemptuous  references 
to  Kuno  Meyer,  rebukes  for  "A.  E."  (discovered 
to  have  flaws)  and  a  tremendous  indictment  of 
German  culture,  with  a  proviso  in  favour  of  Ger- 
man music,  together  with  admiring  references  to 
France,  to  French  literature   and  to  the  French 

[171] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

Impressionists,  particularly  Manet.  A  waiter  in- 
truded into  the  room  for  some  purpose  and  was 
ordered  out  again.  .  .  . 

IV 

Of  all  that  Mr.  Moore  said  on  that  extraordinary 
occasion,  I  remember  most  his  sudden  outburst  into 
what  he  called  practical  politics.  He  demanded 
the  impeachment  of  Mr.  Asquith,  the  restoration  of 
the  Coronation  Oath  and  the  abolition  of  all  dogs! 
The  comic  incongruity  of  those  three  items  in  a 
plan  to  win  the  war  was  apparent  neither  to  him 
nor  his  three  elderly  auditors,  or  so  it  seemed,  and 
I  deemed  it  wise  to  control  my  laughter.  Mr. 
Moore  declared  that  Mr.  Asquith's  inertia,  of  which 
we  were  hearing  so  much  then,  was  certain  to  bring 
defeat  to  the  Allies.  One  of  Mr.  Asquith's  daugh- 
ters had  sat  beside  Mr.  Moore  at  dinner  one  night 
in  London  and  had  informed  her  neighbour  that 
"Father  is  bored  with  the  War!"  whereupon  Mr. 
Moore  informed  her  (or  so  he  said)  that  her 
father's  boredom  might  cause  the  Allies  to  lose  the 
War.  Mr.  Asquith  was  guilty  of  more  serious 
crimes  than  that:  he  had  ruined  the  Irish  gentle- 

[172] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

man  and  delivered  the  country  over  to  hobblede- 
hoys and  low  minded  peasants.  Not  content  with 
ruining  Ireland,  no  longer  fit  to  be  inhabited  by 
gentlemen,  fit  only  to  be  the  country  of  publicans, 
pawnbrokers,  priests  and  politicians,  Mr.  Asquith 
had  tried  to  make  equal  ruin  in  England.  He  has 
abolished  the  Coronation  Oath  which,  until  his  ad- 
vent, had  always  been  administered  to  the  kings 
of  England  at  their  crowning.  In  this  Oath,  they 
declare  their  belief  that  the  Mass  is  an  idolatrous 
ceremony,  not  to  be  acknowledged  by  reasonable 
persons  and  likely  to  be  accepted  only  by  vulgar 
Papists.  Mr.  Asquith,  mindful  of  the  fact  that 
many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Catholics  are  mem- 
bers of  the  British  Commonwealth  of  Nations,  de- 
cided that  the  kings  of  England  should  not  be  hu- 
miliated and  embarrassed  at  their  coronation  by 
the  compulsion  to  insult  the  faith  of  many  of  their 
subjects;  and  so  he  introduced  a  Bill  into  Parlia- 
ment to  abolish  the  Oath,  which  was,  in  due  time, 
abolished.  Mr.  Moore  seemed  to  think  that  all 
the  evils  from  which  mankind  has  suffered  since 
1914  directly  sprang  from  that  political  achieve- 
ment. 

As  for  dogs,  these  abominable  animals,  he  said, 

[173] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

are  nuisances  at  any  time,  but  during  a  war  and 
period  of  food  shortage,  they  are  a  positive  men- 
ace to  the  country.  He  begged  us  to  consider  (a) 
the  great  quantity  of  food  consumed  by  dogs,  (b) 
the  amount  of  nervous  irritability  brought  about 
by  their  incessant  yapping,  and  (c)  the  extent  to 
which  they  defile  the  streets.  He  threatened  us 
with  famine,  insanity  and,  finally,  plague!  .  .  . 
There  is  an  English  poet  who  is  also  a  breeder  of 
bulldogs.  Whenever  he  reads  one  of  Mr.  Moore's 
periodical  canine  denunciations,  he  becomes  so 
enraged  that  only  the  strongest  efforts  of  his  friends 
prevent  him  from  emptying  the  contents  of  his  ken- 
nels on  to  Mr.  Moore's  doorstep  that  they  may 
there  do  their  worst.  The  ambition  of  his  life  is 
to  see  one  of  his  bulldogs  fasten  its  teeth  firmly  in 
the  calf  of  Mr.  Moore's  venerable  leg.  .  .  . 


All  that  has  been  written  here  so  far  will  seem 
to  support  the  superstition  that  Mr.  Moore  is  a 
trifler  with  life,  that  he  is  a  man  destitute  of  se- 
rious purposes;  but  I  am  anxious  to  make  plain  to 
my  readers  that  this  superstition  is  a  superstition. 

[174] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

His  lack  of  reticence  about  his  own  and  other 
people's  affairs  and  his  perverse  incursions  into 
what  he  imagines  to  be  practical  politics  are  ob- 
viously responsible  for  the  belief  that  he  is  what 
is  called  "a  typical  Irishman,"  that  is  to  say,  a 
man  without  a  sense  of  responsibility.  My  ex- 
perience is  that  "typical  Irishmen"  are  generally 
discovered  to  be  Englishmen  or  Welshmen  or  New 
York  East  Side  Jews — the  late  Padraic  Pearse, 
Mr.  Arthur  Griffith  and  Mr.  de  Valera  correspond 
to  those  descriptions — but  it  is  undeniable  that 
Mr.  Moore,  not  without  deliberation,  has  helped 
to  maintain  the  legend  that  Irishmen  are  without 
a  sense  of  responsibility.  When,  for  example, 
during  one  of  the  many  Home  Rule  crises,  he  sug- 
gested that  the  trouble  between  the  two  islands  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland  might  easily  be  settled 
by  intelligent  engineers,  many  persons  were  of  the 
opinion  that  a  man  who  could  talk  such  twaddle, 
as  they  called  it,  in  a  time  of  much  difficulty  ought 
to  be  imprisoned.  The  proposal,  when  the  detail 
were  disclosed,  confirmed  pessimists  in  their  pro- 
found belief  that  the  unsurmountable  obstacle  to 
the  solution  of  Irish  affairs  is  the  Irish  themselves! 
What  Mr.  Moore  suggested  was  this:  that  a  thick 

[175] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

wall  should  be  built  across  the  North  Channel  be- 
tween the  Giant's  Causeway  and  the  Mull  of  Kin- 
tyre,  and  that  another  thick  wall  should  be  built 
across  St.  George's  Channel  between  Carnsore 
Point  and  St.  David's  Head.  These  operations 
completed,  the  engineers  should  then  pump  out  all 
the  water  in  the  Irish  Sea,  fill  in  the  resultant  gap 
with  earth,  and  make  one  island  out  of  two!  He 
seemed  not  to  have  considered  the  case  of  Liver- 
pool. What,  some  one  jestingly  demanded,  would 
become  of  that  great  port  when  deprived  of  its 
"pool"?  What  also,  he  might  have  added,  would 
become  of  Belfast  and  Dublin,  deprived,  the  one 
of  its  Lough,  and  the  other,  of  its  Bay?  Mr. 
Moore  might  have  retorted  that  what  Ireland  lost  on 
Belfast  Lough  it  would  more  than  gain  on  Galway 
Bay,  but  he  preferred  to  remain  silent.  One 
could,  of  course,  draw  a  conclusion,  packed  with 
thought  and  judgment,  from  Mr.  Moore's  playful 
proposal,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  such  was  his  in- 
tention; but  the  average  person  is  either  too  busy 
or  disinclined  to  draw  such  conclusions  from  any- 
thing; and  so,  having  glanced  casually  at  the  de- 
tails of  Mr.  Moore's  plan  to  settle  the  Irish  Ques- 
tion, he  turned  impatiently  away,  convinced  (a) 

[176] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

that  Mr.  Moore  was  an  incorrigible  buffoon,  and 
(b)  that  the  government  of  Ireland  must  ever  re- 
main an  unsolved  problem  because  of  the  Irish 
people's  amazing  inability  to  conduct  themselves 
reasonably! 

But  Mr.  Moore  has  a  serious  purpose  in  life, 
and  he  pursues  that  serious  purpose  with  inde- 
fatigable industry.  The  immediate  and  unmis- 
takable fact  about  him  is  that  he  is  an  artist. 
There  are  few  writers  in  English,  not  even  ex- 
cepting Mr.  Conrad,  who  have  so  much  power  over 
words  as  is  possessed  by  George  Moore,  and  this 
power  has  been  achieved,  as  all  power  is  achieved, 
by  incessant  labour  and  the  most  pure  devotion. 
He  is,  in  the  real  sense,  a  self-made  man.  The 
artistry  that  is  undeniably  his  has  been  wrought  not 
only  in  the  sweat  of  his  brain,  but  in  face  of  power- 
ful obstacles.  His  position  as  the  heir  of  a  fairly 
well-to-do  landowner  in  Ireland  might  have  re- 
sulted in  him  becoming  a  minor  poet,  publishing 
tiny  verses  in  tiny  volumes,  or  a  small  author  of 
fragile  essays  about  butterflies  and  pierrots.  He 
did,  in  fact,  begin  his  writing  career,  as  most  re- 
putable writers  do,  by  composing  poems,  but  he 
speedily  turned  to  prose.     He  actually  published 

[177] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

verses  in  books  entitled  "Flowers  of  Passion" — a 
name  which  incongruously  suggests  Baudelaire  and 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox — and  "Pagan  Poems,"  but, 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover,  no  one  has 
ever  seen  these  books  or  read  the  poems  contained 
in  them.  The  first  was  published  in  1877  and  the 
second  in  1881  and  we  may  conclude  that  they 
have  been  dissolved  by  the  chemicals  of  time. 
Miss  Mitchell,  in  the  book  to  which  reference  has 
already  been  made,  states  that  "nobody  in  Ireland 
has  ever  seen  any  of  Mr.  Moore's  paintings  ex- 
cept 'A.  E.'  to  whom  he  once  shyly  showed  a  head, 
remarking  that  it  had  some  'quality.'  'A.  E'  re- 
mained silent."  The  poems  remain  under  the 
same  kindly  condemnation.  The  favourable  for- 
tune which  might  have  made  a  minor  poet,  and 
nothing  but  a  minor  poet,  out  of  Mr.  Moore  was 
one  of  the  powerful  obstacles  to  his  becoming  a 
master  of  prose. 

The  other  was  the  attempt  made  by  his  father 
to  influence  his  mind.  In  the  preface  from  which 
I  have  already  made  a  brief  quotation,  he  gives  an 
account  of  his  education  at  the  Roman  Catholic 
school  of  Oscott.  George,  it  seemed,  had  a  reti- 
cence in  his  childhood  which  he  remarkably  lost  in 

[178] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY    ELDERS 

maturity:  he  refused  to  confess  his  sins  on  the 
singular  ground  that  he  had  not  got  any  sins  to 
confess.  He  had  not  then  learned,  seemingly,  that 
he  who  has  not  got  any  sins  to  confess,  can 
easily  invent  a  few.  The  story  of  this  episode 
is  fully  narrated  in  "Hail  and  Farewell," 
but  in  the  new  preface  Mr.  Moore  summarizes  it 
and  tells  how  his  father  was  summoned  to  Oscott 
by  the  president  of  the  school  "to  inquire  into  his 
son's  lack  of  belief  in  priests  and  their  sacra- 
ments." The  upshot  of  the  business  was  that  the 
boy,  "not  only  the  last  boy  in  the  class,  but  in  the 
last  class  in  the  school — in  a  word,  the  dunce  of 
the  school"  was  removed  from  Oscott  for  private 
instruction  at  home  in  Mayo.  "George's  case  is 
really  very  alarming,"  the  president  wrote  to  his 
father,  and  the  letter  contained  the  admission  that 
he  did  not  know  whether  George  would  not  or  could 
not  learn. 

It  is  exceedingly  illuminating  to  observe  how  his 
prose  style  has  grown  through  a  series  of  very  di- 
verse books  into  its  present  condition.  One  of 
his  most  remarkable  novels,  as  it  is  also  one  of  his 
earliest,  "A  Mummers  Wife,"  was  clearly  written 
under  the  influence  of  Zola,  but  with  such  indi- 

[179] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

vidual  quality  that  Zola  might  profitably  have 
taken  lessons  from  his  pupil.  The  difference  be- 
tween Emile  Zola  and  George  Moore  is  that  while 
Zola  never  forgot  to  be  a  doctrinaire,  Moore  never 
forgot  to  be  an  artist.  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  was 
unaccountably  banned  by  the  circulating  libraries 
in  England,  and,  such  is  the  conservatism  of  these 
remarkable  institutions,  that  I  believe  the  ban  is 
still  maintained,  although  a  generation  has  arisen 
which  regards  it  as  very  restrained  indeed.  The 
style  in  which  it  is  written  is  somewhat  arid,  and 
the  reader  is  not  carried  forward  by  the  flow  of 
the  story  itself,  but  is  forced  along  by  its  weight. 
A  comparison  between  "A  Mummer's  Wife,"  or 
"Esther  Waters,"  and  such  later  books  as  "The 
Lake"  or  "The  Brook  Kerith"  reveals  such  a  dif- 
ference in  manner  that  the  critic  has  some  difficulty 
in  believing  that  all  four  novels  came  from  the 
mind  of  the  same  author.  Mr.  Wells  is  a  writer 
with  many  manners,  but  the  reader  can  discover  a 
unifying  characteristic,  unmistakably  Wellsian,  in 
all  of  them.  Mr.  Shaw,  a  more  consistent  author 
than  most  men  of  his  quality,  has  kept  so  closely 
to  one  level  that  the  difference  between  his  earliest, 
his  best  and  his  latest  work  is  merely  the  difference 

[180] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF    MY    ELDERS 

of  degree  between  growing  powers,  highest  powers 
and  declining  powers.  The  style  in  the  novels, 
"Love  Among  the  Artists,"  "The  Unsocial  Social- 
ist," "The  Irrational  Knot"  and  "Cashel  Byron's 
Profession"  is  the  same  style,  under  less  control, 
as  the  style  of  "Man  and  Superman,"  "John  Bull's 
Other  Island,"  "Heartbreak  House"  and  "Back 
To  Methuselah."  But  in  Mr.  Moore's  case  the 
style  of  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  has  no  obvious  re- 
lationship to  that  of  "The  Lake"  or  "The  Brook 
Kerith."  The  difference  between  the  earlier  books 
and  the  later  ones  is  the  difference  between  the  flow 
of  a  river  through  a  canal  and  the  flow  of  a  river 
through  its  natural  bed. 


VI 


n 


'A  Mummer's  Wife"  is  a  powerful  story,  told 
in  a  skilful  and  impressive  fashion,  but  it  leaves 
the  reader  less  conscious  of  life  than  of  mechanics. 
As  a  piece  of  construction  it  is  a  better  novel  than 
"The  Brook  Kerith,"  but  as  a  piece  of  literature 
it  is  not.  The  quality  of  life  is  dusty  and  arranged 
in  the  early  book,  but  it  is  alert  and  vibrant  and 
natural  in  the  later  one.     One  notable  feature 

[181] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

of  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  is  the  display  of  knowl- 
edge by  Mr.  Moore  of  things  and  of  places  with 
which  one  would  not  expect  him  to  be  familiar. 
His  acquaintance  with  grooms  and  horse-racing, 
manifested  in  "Esther  Waters,"  is  understandable 
in  a  man  who  was  reared  in  a  country-house  where 
the  language  of  the  stable  must  have  been  familiar. 
But  how  did  Mr.  Moore  obtain  his  intimacy  wilh 
the  interior  of  a  small  draper's  and  milliner's 
shop  in  one  of  the  Five  Towns  in  Staffordshire, 
together  with  his  knowledge  of  the  details  of  life 
lived  by  a  touring  theatrical  company?  Mr.  Ar- 
nold Bennett's  knowledge  of  the  Five  Towns  and 
the  interior  of  a  small  shop  is  explained  by  the 
fact  that  he  was  born  in  such  circumstances  in 
one  of  the  Five  Towns.  Mr.  Leonard  Merrick's 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  life  of  a  travelling 
theatrical  company  is  explained  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  once  an  actor  in  such  a  company. 
But  how  did  Mr.  Moore,  the  son  of  a  prosperous 
Irish  landowner  of  aristocratic  origin,  acquire  his 
close  intimacy  with  the  details  of  such  life?  It 
is  this  aspect  of  the  book  which  reveals  the  exist- 
ence in  Mr.  Moore  of  a  high  faculty  which  was 
absent  from  the  mind  of  his  first  master,  Zola, 

[182] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  faculty  of  imagination.  Zola  made  his  novels 
out  of  things  actually  witnessed  or  learned  from 
books,  but  Mr.  Moore  made  his  novels  out  of  his 
own  imagination.  Zola  could  only  write  about 
life  in  a  small  shop  in  a  small  town  after  he 
had  actually  lived  in  it,  but  Mr.  Moore  wrote  "A 
Mummer's  Wife,"  with  no  more  knowledge  of 
Hanley  than  a  person  passing  through  it  might  pos- 
sess, and  gave  his  readers  an  impression  of  deep 
intimacy  with  it. 

This  book,  notable  in  itself,  had  a  notable  re- 
sult. It  was  read  by  a  young  writer,  named  Enoch 
Arnold  Bennett,  then  engaged  in  journalism  and 
the  production  of  semi-sensational  novels.  Ben- 
nett was  a  native  of  "the  Five  Towns"  district, 
born  in  a  place  called  Shelton  to  the  north-east  of 
the  town  of  Hanley  which  is  the  scene  of  "A  Mum- 
mer's Wife."  Mr.  Bennett  himself  told  me  that 
until  he  read  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  he  never 
thought  of  writing  about  "the  Five  Towns."  The 
Staffordshire  people  had  no  literary  significance 
to  him  until  that  significance  was  revealed  by  "A 
Mummer's  Wife."  Mr.  Bennett  probably  exag- 
gerates the  extent  of  his  debt  to  Mr.  Moore.  He 
would,  sooner  or  later,  have  explored  the  rich  mine 

[183] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

from  which  he  produced  the  ore  of  "The  Old 
Wives'  Tale"  and  "Clayhanger" — it  is  ludicrous 
to  imagine  that  but  for  the  happy  accident  of 
reading  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  he  would  never  have 
done  so — but  it  is  not  improbable  that  Mr.  Moore's 
story  brought  him  to  his  proper  milieu  earlier 
than  he  might  otherwise  have  reached  it.  The 
reader  can  profitably  entertain  himself  by  compar- 
ing "the  Five  Towns,"  the  places  and  the  people, 
of  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  with  "the  Five  Towns," 
places  and  people  of  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale"  and 
"Clayhanger."  The  difference  between  Mr. 
Moore's  account  and  Mr.  Bennett's  is  the  differ- 
ence between  careful  and  acute  observation  by  an 
intelligent  stranger,  alien  in  birth  and  tradition  and 
training,  and  the  knowledge,  inherited  from  his 
forefathers  and  acquired  in  childhood  and  youth, 
of  a  native.  Mr.  Moore  had  to  "mug  up"  his 
subject,  as  schoolboys  say,  but  Mr.  Bennett  was 
born  with  most  of  it.  The  description  of  Hanley 
in  the  first  chapter  of  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale" 
(where  it  is  named  Hanbridge  by  Mr.  Bennett) 
contrasts  remarkably  with  the  description  of  the 
same  town  in  "A  Mummer's  Wife,"  as  does  the 
description  of  a  pottery  seen  through  Mr.  Bennett's 

[184] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

eyes  in  "Leonora"  with  that  of  a  pottery  seen 
through  Mr.  Moore's  eyes  in  the  fourth  chapter  of 
"A  Mummer's  Wife."  These  differences  of  de- 
scription are,  of  course,  the  result  of  a  difference 
in  temperament  between  the  two  men  which  is  per- 
haps most  clearly  revealed  in  the  way  in  which 
they  portray  old  women  in  their  books  and  deal 
widi  scenes  of  suffering.  An  intelligent  reader 
of  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  and  "The  Old  Wives' 
Tale,"  having  made  allowance  for  the  fact  that 
the  first-named  was  written  by  a  young  man  be- 
ginning his  career,  and  the  second  by  a  man  ap- 
proaching middle-age  and  the  apex  of  his  power, 
could  draw  up  a  fairly  accurate  statement  of  the 
character  of  each  of  the  authors  by  comparing  the 
figure  of  old  Mrs.  Ede  in  Mr.  Moore's  novel 
with  that  of  old  Mrs.  Baines  in  Mr.  Bennett's.  The 
contrast  between  the  scene  of  suffering  pictured 
in  the  first  chapter  of  "A  Mummer's  Wife"  and 
that  in  the  first  chapter  of  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale" 
would  considerably  assist  him  in  making  the  state- 
ment. The  painful  insistence  on  the  details  of 
the  asthma  which  afflicted  Mr.  Ede  is  in  sharp  op- 
position to  the  almost  jocular  fashion  in  which  Mr. 
Povey's  toothache  is  described.     Both  books  end 

[185] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

with  the  death  of  the  principal  figures.     Kate  Ede 
dies  disquietly.     One  might     say  that  Constance 
and  Sophia  Baines  also  die  disquietly.     But  there 
is   a  difference  in  the   disquiet.     Constance   and 
Sophia  had  had  their  share  of  disappointment  and 
trouble  and  had  lost  their  illusions,  but  at  least 
they  had  had  their  fill  of  life,  each  as  she  desired 
it,  and  if  there  had  been  disappointment,  there  had 
also  been  satisfaction:  the  illusions  were  lost,  but 
while  they  lasted  they  were  agreeable.     Kate  died 
before   she  had  had  her  fill  of  life,   without  il- 
lusions and  also,  which  is  worse,  without  agree- 
able memories.    Youth  insists  that   life   is  either 
very    gay    or   very    dismal — and    "A    Mummer's 
Wife"  was  written  by  a  young  man;  but  Matur- 
ity knows  that  the  colours  of  life  are  mingled  rather 
than  uniform,  and  that  even  when  the  end  is  a  dis- 
mal one,  the  journey  to  it  has  not  been  without 
moments   of  fragrance   and   pleasure — and   "The 
Old  Wives'  Tale"  was  written  by  a  man  in  his 
maturity.     The    similarities    between    these    two 
books  are  as  interesting  as  their  differences,  and 
a  close  study  of  them  leaves  the  reader  at  once 
aware  of  very  dissimilar  personalities  and  with 
enhanced  respect  for  both  of  them. 

[186] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

VII 

It  is  when  we  come  to  such  novels  as  "The  Lake" 
and  "The  Brook  Kerith"  that  we  discover  Mr. 
Moore  at  his  greatest.  Zola  is  forgotten  and  only 
the  strength  of  Mr.  Moore  himself  is  now  dis- 
played. "The  Lake"  is  among  the  most  beautiful 
stories  of  our  time,  a  finely-conceived  and  finely- 
wrought  book,  more  complete  and  unified  than 
"The  Brook  Kerith,"  which,  in  spite  of  much 
beauty  and  scholarship,  is  marred  organically  by 
a  dispersal  of  the  interest.  The  latter  novel  is  in 
three  sections,  the  first  dealing  with  Joseph  of 
Arimathea,  the  second  with  Jesus,  and  the  third 
with  Paul.  Each  of  these  sections  by  itself  is 
well  and  even  superbly  done,  although  in  my  judg- 
ment, the  first  of  them  is  much  the  best  of  the 
three;  but  the  interest  which  the  reader  has  in 
any  one  of  the  three  sections  is  not  felt  in  the 
whole  book  because  the  three  great  figures  are  not 
grouped  together.  We  begin  with  Joseph  and 
then,  at  the  point  when  we  are  absorbed  in  him, 
are  hurried  on  to  Jesus,  undergoing  a  similar  ex- 
perience with  Him  when  we  are  hurried  off  to 
Paul.     The  book  is  not  a  closely-knit  drama  in 

[187] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

which  the  characters  constantly  act  and  re-act  upon 
each  other,  but  is  more  akin  to  three  separate 
plays  in  which  certain  figures  recur  in  greater  or 
less  positions.  Mr.  Moore,  in  short,  was  uncer- 
tain whether  to  make  Joseph  or  Jesus  or  Paul  the 
hero  of  his  story,  and  he  unwisely  compromised 
by  making  each  of  them  hero  for  a  portion  of  it, 
with  the  result  that  each  is  of  supreme  impor- 
tance for  a  third  of  the  book  and  of  subordinate 
importance  for  the  remainder  of  it.  "The  Brook 
Kerith"  is,  nevertheless,  a  considerable  achieve- 
ment and  is  in  itself  sufficient  to  secure  a  high 
place  in  English  letters  for  its  author. 

The  legend  is  that  Mr.  Moore  is  a  trifler  with 
life,  a  man  without  purpose,  immensely  egotistical, 
having  some  of  the  simplicity  of  the  buffoon. 
The  truth  is  that  he  is  an  audacious,  exceedingly 
adroit  and  utterly  unthwartable  artist  who  bends 
the  visible  world  to  his  purpose  of  discovering 
and  perfecting  a  formula  of  words  with  which  to 
express  his  vision  of  the  invisible  world.  He 
has,  indeed,  a  simplicity  of  character,  but  it  is 
not  the  simplicity  of  the  buffoon:  it  is  the  immense 
and  dissolving  simplicity  of  the  man  of  genius. 

[188] 


BERNARD  SHAW 

I 

There  is  a  kind  of  shy,  embarrassed  man  of 
merit  who  cannot  keep  or  even  reach  to  his  proper 
position  in  the  world  without  making  some  sort  of 
pretence  about  himself.  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  is 
such  a  man.  He  has  created  his  legend  with  such 
extraordinary  skill  that  those  who  know  him  well 
have  great  difficulty  in  persuading  the  general 
public,  which  has  neither  the  time  nor  the  intelli- 
gence to  understand  a  man  of  marked  personality, 
to  believe  that  the  legend  is  a  legend,  that  the  re- 
puted Bernard  Shaw  is  not  the  real  Bernard  Shaw. 
The  common  notion  is  that  he  has  an  insatiable 
craving  for  publicity,  is  immensely  conceited  and 
self-centred,  and  does  not  care  what  folly  of 
thought  or  conduct  he  commits  if  by  so  doing  he 
draws  attention  to  himself.  The  truth  about  him 
is  that  he  is  a  shy  and  nervous  man,  singularly 
humble-minded  and  sincere,  very  courageous  and 
full  of  quick,  penetrating  wisdom,  and  so  generous 

[189] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

and  kindly  that  he  may  be  said  to  be  willing  to 
do  more  for  his  friends  than  his  friends  will  do 
for  themselves.  He  is  a  Don  Quixote  without  il- 
lusions. When  he  tilts  at  windmills,  he  does  so 
because  they  are  windmills  in  private  ownership, 
and  he  wishes  them  to  be  driven  by  electricity  and 
owned  by  the  local  authority.  In  print  and  on 
platforms,  Mr.  Shaw  brags  and  boasts  and  lays 
claim  to  an  omniscience  that  would  scandalize  most 
deities,  but  no  one  who  has  the  ability  to  dis- 
tinguish between  sincerity  and  mere  capering  is 
in  the  least  deceived  by  his  platform  conceit.  He 
is  one  of  the  very  few  men  in  the  world  who  can 
brag  in  public  without  being  offensive  to  his  audi- 
tors. He  can  even  insult  his  audience  with- 
out hurting  its  feelings.  There  is  a  quality 
of  geniality  and  kindliness  in  his  most  violent  and 
denunciatory  utterance  that  reconciles  all  but  the 
completely  fat-headed  to  a  patient  submission  to 
his  chastisement;  and  his  most  perverse  statements 
are  so  swiftly  followed  by  things  profoundly  true 
and  sincerely  said  that  those  who  listen  to  him  are 
less  conscious  of  his  platform  tricks  than  are 
those  who  merely  read  newspaper  reports  of  his 
speeches.     This  is  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  the 

[190] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

newspapers  print  only  his  flippant  and  fantastic 
stuff,  and  omit  his  vital  matter.  I  have  seen  re- 
porters at  one  of  his  meetings  sitting  with  their 
pencils  loosely  dangling  from  their  fingers  while 
Mr.  Shaw  spoke  wisely  and  deeply,  and  then, 
when  he  uttered  some  trivial  or  outrageous  thing, 
coming  to  life  and  hastily  scribbling  the  jape  into 
their  notebooks. 

It  is  my  purpose  here  to  insist  that  Mr.  Shaw  is 
a  shy  man  with  a  large  element  of  the  gawky  school 
boy  in  him  so  that  he  is  awkward  and  embar- 
rassed when  he  comes  suddenly  into  the  presence 
of  strangers  without  having  been  warned  that 
strangers  are  to  be  encountered.  I  have  seen  him 
blush  like  a  boy  on  finding  people  in  a  room  which 
he  had  expected  to  find  unoccupied,  and  when  one 
meets  him  casually  in  the  street  he  is  at  first  non- 
plussed and  without  conversation  or  power  to  do 
more  than  smile  amiably.  It  is  not  easy  to  make 
this  shyness  of  his  plain  to  those  who  have  met 
him  once  or  twice  because  he  has  remarkable 
powers  of  recovery  and  can  cover  up  his  initial 
embarrassment  with  very  great  skill;  and  also  be- 
cause his  platform  manners  are  very  easy  and  his 
general  social  manners  are  exceedingly  gracious. 

[191] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

He  has  made  many  pretences  in  his  life,  but  the 
one  pretence  that  he  has  never  succeeded  in  main- 
taining is  the  pretence  that  he  is  a  bad-mannered 
man.  There  are  stories  told  of  him  that  seem  to 
show  him  in  a  graceless,  even  cruel,  character,  but 
these  are  no  more  than  might  be  expected  from  a 
man  of  nervous  temperament  who  is  being  bothered 
excessively  by  the  demands  of  people  who  have 
no  right  to  make  demands  on  him  at  all.  Against 
those  stories  may  be  set  far  more  stories  of  acts 
of  exceptional  kindliness  to  those  who  are  in 
trouble  or  in  need  of  advice  and  encouragement. 
Very  few  great  men  have  given  so  generously  of 
their  time  and  strength  to  helping  young  men  of 
talent  to  obtain  recognition  as  Mr.  Shaw  has  done. 
His  awkwardness  of  manner  when  taken 
unawares  is  very  different  from  that  of  Mr. 
Yeats  in  similar  circumstances.  Mr.  Shaw  is  shy 
and  awkward  with  strangers,  but  Mr.  Yeats,  who 
has  never  been  shy  in  his  life,  is  only  awkward. 
Mr.  Shaw,  because  he  is  naturally  gracious,  recov- 
ers himself  more  quickly  than  Mr.  Yeats,  who  has 
cultivated  his  graciousness;  and  it  may  be  said 
of  them  that  Mr.  Shaw  has  the  manners  of  a  man 
instinctively  gentle,  whereas  Mr.  Yeats  has  the 

[192] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

manners  of  a  man  who  has  practised  deportment 
before  a  cheval  glass. 

II 

It  is  obvious  that  a  man  so  shy  and  easily  em- 
barrassed as  Mr.  Shaw  is  cannot  hope  to  make 
a  swift  impression  upon  his  contemporaries  unless 
he  commits  an  outrage  upon  his  own  nature.  A 
world  which  regards  modesty  as  a  sign  of  incom- 
petence, if  not  of  actual  imbecility,  is  slow  to 
recognize  the  real  merits  of  a  man  unless  he  lays 
claim  to  merits  which  he  has  not  got.  In  the  long 
run,  the  crowd  pays  tribute  to  great  men,  but  Mr. 
Shaw  was  anxious  that  tribute  should  be  paid  to 
him  immediately.  Fame  at  the  age  of  eighty  of- 
fered few  inducements  to  him,  and  post  humous 
fame  offered  no  inducements  at  all.  He  had  some 
thing  to  say  to  a  world  disinclined  to  listen  to  him, 
and  he  felt  that  he  could  not  persuade  it  to  do  so 
unless  he  first  of  all  performed  some  unusual  plat- 
form tricks  to  catch  its  attention.  Something  of 
his  principle  seemed  to  be  in  the  mind  of  a  tipster 
whom  I  saw  on  Epsom  racecourse  before  the  war 
began.     I  was  walking  in  the  crowd  on  the  course, 

[193] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF  MY  ELDERS 

which  the  police  were  not  yet  clearing,  when  sud- 
denly a  very  well-dressed  man  in  my  neighbour- 
hood seemed  to  go  out  of  his  mind.  He  whirled 
violently  round,  uttered  a  fierce  yell,  flung  an  ex- 
pensive silk  hat  into  the  air  and  waved  his  gold- 
headed  cane  in  a  very  disturbing  fashion.  He  then 
began  to  chant  in  a  manner  not  unlike  the  way  in 
which  Mr.  Vachel  Lindsay  recites  his  poem  on  the 
Congo!  ...  By  the  time  he  had  finished  this  per- 
formance, a  considerable  crowd  had  collected 
around  him.  I  was  in  the  forefront  of  it,  and 
while  I  was  wondering  how  long  it  would  be  before 
the  police  arrived  to  take  charge  of  the  demented 
man,  he  recovered  his  sanity  and  proceeded  to  sell 
tips  for  the  two-thirty  race.  I  bought  one  of  them. 
I  put  money  that  was  rare  and  precious  on  the 
horse  which  he  commended  to  my  patronage.  And 
the  horse  lost  the  race!  .  .  .  Mr.  Shaw  climbed  on 
to  platforms  and  into  newspapers,  shouting  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  "I  am  better  than  Shakespeare" 
in  the  hope  that  he  might  convince  the  world  that 
he  had  any  merit  at  all.  He  performed  tricks  in 
public  in  order  to  make  people  believe  that  he 
could  think  in  the  theatre.  He  wore  comic  clothes 
and  refused  to  shave  and  conducted  a  rebellion 

[194] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

against  evening  dress  and  silk  hats  and  boiled 
shirts.  He  declined  to  eat  meat,  to  smoke  tobacco 
or  to  drink  wine.  He  said  that  he  was  an  atheist 
and  an  immoral  writer.  He  tried  to  train  his 
eyebrows  into  the  shape  which  is  called  Mephisto- 
phelian.  He  saw  himself  in  the  role  of  the  Fat 
Boy  in  "Pickwick  Papers"  trying  to  make  men's 
flesh  creep,  and  was  disgusted  to  find  that  the  Fat 
Boy's  most  valuable  asset,  his  obesity,  had  been 
denied  to  him  and  given  to  Mr.  Gilbert  Chesterton, 
who  would  not  make  any  one's  flesh  creep  for  the 
value  of  the  world!  Finally,  he  announced  that  he 
was  a  Socialist.  His  Socialism  was  not  a  plat- 
form trick:  it  was  his  serious  faith;  but  it  became 
so  associated  in  the  public  mind  with  his  platform 
tricks  that  he  had  only  to  say  in  public  that  he  was 
a  Socialist  and  his  audience  would  giggle  as  if  that 
were  the  most  amusing  thing  they  had  ever  heard. 
This  habit  of  performing  platform  tricks  un- 
doubtedly drew  a  large  crowd  to  listen  to  him,  and 
he  did  not  fail  to  deliver  himself  of  his  peculiar 
faith  to  that  crowd  when  he  had  collected  it;  but 
there  were  considerable  drawbacks  to  his  method 
of  securing  attention.  The  crowd  could  never 
quite  rid  itself  of  the  belief  that  he  was  "one  of 

[195] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

those  comic  chaps."  It  admitted  that  he  was  a 
very  clever  "comic  chap,"  but  firmly  at  the  back 
of  the  popular  mind  was  the  belief  that  he  did  not 
mean  one  half  of  what  he  said  and  was  not  entirely 
sincere  about  the  remaining  half.  It  liked  to  see 
him  performing  in  public,  and  it  paid  large  sums 
of  money  to  hear  him  lecture  in  behalf  of  causes 
that  were  abhorrent  to  it.  Duchesses,  for  example, 
contributed  heavily  to  the  funds  of  Socialist  soci- 
eties simply  for  the  privilege  of  hearing  him  speak, 
and  duchesses  do  not  love  Socialist  societies.  The 
crowd  talked  about  him  to  a  remarkable  extent; 
it  read  his  books;  it  attended  performances  of  his 
plays;  it  went  to  hear  him  lecture  .  .  .  but  it  in- 
sisted that  what  was  important  about  him  was, 
not  his  advocacy  of  this  or  that,  but  his  power  to 
excite  laughter.  When  he  was  most  in  earnest,  the 
crowd  said,  "He's  so  witty!"  and  left  the  matter 
there.  That,  perhaps,  is  why  "Common  Sense  and 
the  War"  aroused  so  much  wrath  in  England. 
The  crowd,  accustomed  to  tittering  behind  its 
hand  or  laughing  outright  at  Mr.  Shaw's  wit,  was 
disconcerted  by  the  serious  way  in  which  he  dealt 
with  the  War  in  that  notorious  pamphlet.  It  was 
so  shocked  by  what  he  said  that  it  professed  to  be 

[196] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

indignant  that  any  man  could  cut  comic  capers  at 
so  awful  a  moment.  Mr.  Shaw  was  not  cutting 
any  capers,  comic  or  otherwise,  but  the  crowd, 
trained  by  him  to  believe  that  he  was  a  comedian, 
could  not  believe  that  he  was  capable  of  being  any- 
thing else.  That  pamphlet,  ill-timed,  perhaps,  in 
some  respects,  was  yet  well-timed  in  this  respect, 
that  it  reminded  the  British  people  of  their  most 
priceless  privilege,  the  right  of  free  speech.  The 
whole  of  the  British  press  collapsed  before  the 
Press  Censor,  and  editors  were  afraid  to  open  their 
mouths  about  things  which  were  scandalous.  Mr. 
Shaw  restored  the  freedom  of  the  press.  He  said 
what  he  had  to  say  and  he  said  it  with  the  utmost 
courage  and  force,  and  within  a  week  or  two  from 
the  date  of  publication  of  his  pamphlet,  the  timid 
editors  were  rearing  up  their  heads  and  daring  to 
say  "Bo!"  to  the  political  geese. 

There  were  times,  perhaps,  when  he  seemed  to  be 
yielding  to  the  mob's  desire  to  be  tickled,  when 
the  one  thing  apparently  that  moved  him  was  his 
delight  in  making  the  crowd  giggle  and  guffaw; 
and  now  and  then  his  friends  felt  that  he  was  over- 
doing the  tricks,  that  he  was  monotonously  inform- 
ing people  that  he  was  "better  than  Shakespeare," 

[197] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

a  statement  that  seemed  as  idle  as  if  Anatole 
France  were  to  say  that  he  was  "better  than"  Vic- 
tor Hugo,  when  in  fact  the  men  are  so  dissimilar 
that  there  is  no  means  of  comparing  them.  But  the 
danger,  such  as  it  was,  amounted  to  little,  for  when 
all  the  discount  is  made  that  can  be  made  for  pos- 
sible charlatanry  in  his  character,  there  remains 
this  indisputable  fact  that  he  has  left  a  mark  on 
the  thought  and  life  not  only  of  the  English-speak- 
ing world,  but  of  the  whole  of  Western  civilization, 
which  cannot  be  eradicated.  We  may  go  to  the 
theatre  to  laugh  at  Mr.  Shaw,  but  we  remain  to 
think  with  him. 


Ill 

Oddly  enough,  there  was  another  dramatist,  also 
an  Irishman,  whose  practice  was  precisely  the  op- 
posite of  Mr.  Shaw's:  a  shy,  nervous  man  who  per- 
mitted himself  to  be  cheated  of  a  position  of  au- 
thority because  of  his  modesty.  John  Millington 
Synge  was  what  Mr.  Shaw  might  have  been  had 
he  allowed  his  nature  to  run  off  to  dark  corners  and 
hide  itself.  Synge  could  not  compel  himself  to 
climb  on  to  platforms  or  make  extravagant  boasts. 

[198] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

He  may  have  had  the  desire  to  make  boasts,  but 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  do  so.     An  excellent 
comrade  for  an  individual  on  a  country  road,  he 
was  so  nervous  in  the  presence  of  an  audience  of 
more  than  six  people  that  he  was  in  danger  of 
physical  sickness,  and  he  may  be  said  to  have  died 
of  sheer  inability  to  assert  himself.     Had  it  not 
been  that  Mr.  Yeats  was  by  to  do  Synge's  boasting 
for  him,  the  world  might  never  have  heard  of  that 
singular  man  of  twisted  talent.     Mr.  Yeats,  indeed, 
boasted  so  loudly  of  Synge's  gifts  that  superficial 
persons  began  to  believe  that  Synge  was  the  greater 
man  of  the  two,  and  I  remember  on  one  occasion 
hearing    young    women,    fresh    from    Newnham, 
boldly  declaring  that  Mr.  Yeats's  chief  title  to  re 
memberance  would  lie  in  the  fact  that  he  had  dis 
covered  Synge!     I  have  never  been  able  to  con 
vince  myself  that  Synge  was  a  great  man  of  genius 
it  is  not  necessary  to  convince  oneself  that  Mr 
Yeats  is  a  great  man  of  genius:  the  fact  is  obvious 
Synge  was  a  man  of  peculiar  and  interesting  talent 
whose  work  smelt  too  strongly  of  the  medicine  bottle 
to  be  of  supreme  merit.    He  was  the  sick  man  in  lit- 
erature,  and  he  had  the  sick  man's   interest  in 
cruelty  and  harshness  and  violent  temperaments. 

[199] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

He  had  the  weak  man's  envy  of  strength  and  the 
weak  man's  tendency  to  mistake  violence  for 
strength.  His  plays  are  better  than  Mr.  Yeats's 
plays — "Riders  to  the  Sea"  is  immeasurably  better 
than  "Kathleen  ni  Houlihan" — but  Mr.  Yeats  is  a 
greater  poet  than  Synge  was  a  dramatist.  I  am 
disinclined  to  believe  that  Synge  was  a  great  dram- 
atist. He  brought  a  desirable  element  of  bitter- 
ness and  acrid  beauty  into  the  sticky  mess  of  self- 
satisfaction  and  sentimentalism  which  is  known 
as  Irish  Literature,  but  I  feel  that  he  was  lack- 
ing in  staying-power.  He  shot  his  bolt  when  he 
wrote  "The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World,"  the 
chief  value  of  which  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  ripped 
up  the  smugness  of  the  Irish  people,  than  whom 
there  are  no  other  people  in  the  world  so  pleased 
with  themselves  on  such  slender  grounds,  and 
taught  them  the  much-needed  lesson  that  they  are 
very  like  the  rest  of  God's  creatures.  Synge  por- 
trayed the  Irish  people  faithfully  as  he  saw  them: 
he  put  in  the  element  of  poetry  in  the  Celtic  char- 
acter, but  he  also  put  in  the  element  of  cruelty;  he 
put  in  the  wit  and  generosity,  but  he  also  put  in 
the  dullness  and  the  greed ;  he  put  in  the  gallantry, 
but  he  also  put  in  the  cowardice;  he  put  in  the  no- 

[200] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

bility,  but  he  also  put  in  the  gross  brutality.  In 
other  words,  he  saw  at  the  same  time  the  idealism 
of  Padraic  Pearse  and  Thomas  MacDonagh  per- 
meated by  the  incredible  brutality  of  De  Valera's 
ruffians.  He  knew  the  delicate  sense  of  beauty 
which  suffuses  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Padraic  Colum 
and  he  smelt  the  odour  of  the  charnel-house  that 
rises  from  the  work  of  Mr.  James  Joyce,  and  had 
he  been  able  to  keep  the  two  sides  of  Irish  char- 
acter justly  poised,  he  would  have  been  a  great 
man  of  genius;  but  he  was  not  able  to  keep  the 
balance  between  them.  He  tended  more  and  more 
to  see  merit  in  cruelty  and  harshness,  and  he  turned 
away  from  the  sensitive  and  delicate  beauty  of  Mr. 
Colum  to  the  sewer-revelations  of  Mr.  Joyce,  who 
may  fitly  be  described  as  Rabelais  after  a  nervous 
breakdown.  People  tell  me  that  "Deirdre  of  the 
Sorrows,"  his  unfinished  play,  is  the  greatest  of 
all  the  plays  that  have  been  written  about  that  un- 
happy and  romantic  lady;  and  perhaps  what  they 
say  is  true,  for  none  of  the  plays  that  have  been 
written  about  her,  Mr.  Herbert  Trench's  or  "A. 
E.'s"  or  Mr.  Yeats's,  are  in  the  great  line,  though 
all  of  them  are  interesting.  But  judged  by  itself 
or  in  relation  to  plays  generally,  it  does  not  seem 

[201] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

to  me  to  be  a  great  drama  nor  is  it  so  meritable  as 
some  of  Synge's  own  plays  of  earlier  origin.  It 
marks  to  me  the  limit  of  his  range,  and  shows 
signs  of  drooping  energy.  Some  may  say  that  I 
am  attributing  to  failing  powers  what  should  be 
attributed  to  sickness  and  the  imminence  of  death, 
but  I  think  I  am  dealing  justly  with  this  odd  in- 
truder into  the  realm  of  letters  when  I  say  that  his 
talent  was  a  small  one  and  that  had  he  lived  for 
twice  as  many  years  as  he  actually  did  live,  he 
would  not  have  produced  anything  of  greater  note 
than  he  had  written  when  he  died. 

IV 

Platform  tricks  saved  Mr.  Shaw  from  falling  to 
the  Synge  level.  Contact  with  rude  men  and 
ruder  women  in  public  places  kept  him  in  familiar 
alliance  with  normal  things,  and  so  it  came  about 
that  his  genius,  though  it  soared,  never  soared  out 
of  sight.  He  marched  ahead  of  the  crowd,  but  he 
never  went  so  far  ahead  of  it  that  it  could  not 
catch  up  with  him.  He  urged  reluctant  men  and 
women  to  follow  him  along  the  paths  that  were 
obscure  and  difficult,  but  he  never  urged  them  to 

[202] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

try  a  path  which  he  had  not  himself  explored,  or 
was  unwilling  to  explore.  Not  all  of  his  advice 
was  accepted  .  .  .  not  all  of  it  was  worthy  of 
acceptance  .  .  .  but  all  of  it,  accepted  or  re- 
jected, was  listened  to.  He  would  have  found  a 
readier  agreement  to  take  his  advice  if  he  had  been 
less  logical  in  his  arguments,  but  his  mind  governs 
his  life  so  completely  that  he  cannot  make  any  al- 
lowances for  the  wayward  character  of  the  aver- 
age man.  He  has  given  himself  so  completely  to 
his  mind  that  his  feelings  seem  to  have  atrophied. 
He  is  incapable,  apparently,  of  understanding  the 
beauty  and  fascination  of  mere  irrelevancy.  A 
study  of  his  work  reveals  no  consciousness  on  his 
part  of  natural  beauty.  He  seems  not  to  know 
that  a  tree  is  a  lovely  thing,  that  its  loveliness  is 
entirely  without  moral  or  sociological  significance. 
He  would  probably  agree  with  Dr.  Johnson  that  one 
field  is  very  like  another  field,  that  water  in  one 
part  of  the  world  is  identical  with  water  in  another 
part  of  the  world  .  .  .  and  would  be  just  as  re- 
mote from  the  truth  as  Dr.  Johnson  was:  for  one 
field  is  not  like  another  field,  and  water  in  one 
place  can  be  very  dissimilar  in  look  from  water 
in  some  other  place.     Mr.  Shaw  would  not  suffer 

[203] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

one  pang  at  the  destruction  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral 
if  he  felt  that  its  destruction  made  the  processes 
of  life  more  convenient  to  the  ordinary  citizen.  If 
he  had  to  choose  between  Rheims  Cathedral  and  an 
improved  drainage  system  for  France  ...  a  thing 
which  France  very  badly  needs,  as  any  one  with  a 
nose  can  tell  ...  he  would  choose  the  drainage 
system.  The  College  of  Cardinals  is  less  lovely 
in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Shaw  than  the  members  of  a 
Borough  Council.  He  would  rather  possess  a  good 
fountain-pen  than  the  first  folio  of  Shakespeare's 
plays.  There  was  a  man  in  Dublin  who  singularly 
resembled  him  in  everything  except  wit.  Francis 
Sheehy  Skeffington,  who  was  wrongly  executed  in 
the  Easter  Rising  in  Dublin  in  1916,  had  Mr. 
Shaw's  logical  faculty  without  Mr.  Shaw's  redeem- 
ing wit.  He  was  a  very  honest,  courageous,  and 
personally  attractive  man,  just  as  Mr.  Shaw  is, 
but  he  was  also  a  very  wrong-headed  man  and  to- 
tally incapable  of  any  sort  of  concerted  action  with 
other  people.  Mr.  Shaw's  wit  brings  him  into 
more  cordial  relationship  with  other  human  beings 
than  Sheehy  Skeffington  would  ever  have  achieved. 
I  remember,  just  before  the  war  began,  meeting 
Skeffington  in  North  Wales.  He,  too,  was  insensible 

[204] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

to  natural  beauty  and  was  without  respect  for  tra- 
dition or  ancient  institutions.  I  took  him  one  eve- 
ning to  a  lake  in  Anglesey  where  many  reeds  grew. 
I  asked  him  to  watch  while  I  clapped  my  hands, 
and  when  I  had  done  so,  thousands  of  starlings 
flew  out  of  the  reeds  with  a  great  fluttering  of 
wings,  making  a  tremendous  disturbance  because 
they  had  been  roused  from  their  sleep.  Skeffing- 
ton  gazed  at  these  birds  as  if  he  had  never  seen  a 
starling  before.  I  judged  by  the  look  of  astonish- 
ment in  his  face  that  if  he  could  have  persuaded 
himself  to  believe  in  magic,  he  would  have  re- 
garded me  as  a  magician.  By  merely  smiting  my 
hands,  I  had  filled  the  air  with  fluttering  birds! 
This  experience  so  interested  me  that  I  decided  to 
make  other  experiments  with  Skeffington,  and  so, 
on  the  following  day,  I  took  him  to  a  field  outside 
the  village  where  some  very  fine  druidical  remains 
were  to  be  seen.  I  led  him  up  to  the  stones  and 
waited  to  see  what  effect  they  would  have  upon 
him.  He  looked  at  them  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then,  quite  unmoved  by  the  fact  that  they  had  been 
standing  there  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  and 
were  all  that  was  left  of  an  ancient  religion,  he 
took  a  piece  of  paper  from  his  pocket  and,  mur- 

[205] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

muring  in  his  high-pitched  Ulster  voice,  "I  think 
I'll  do  a  little  propaganda!"  thrust  it  into  a  crevice 
of  the  old  altar.  The  paper  had  VOTES  FOR 
WOMEN  on  it!  He  was  totally  incapable  of  un- 
derstanding why  this  act  of  his  disgusted  me.  His 
mind  was  indifferent  to  such  things  as  tradition; 
he  simply  could  not  visualize  those  stones  as  any- 
thing other  than  a  remarkably  useful  hoarding  on 
which  to  advertise  his  latest  enthusiasm.  I  sup- 
pose that  if  he  thought  of  the  druids  at  all,  he 
thought  contemptuously  of  them  as  barbarians  to 
whom  had  been  denied  the  enlightenment  that  he 
enjoyed;  and  his  desperately  logical  mind,  working 
on  the  fact  that  many  persons  would  visit  these  re- 
mains, suggested  to  him  that  here  was  an  excellent 
opportunity  of  thrusting  his  propaganda  upon  the 
attention  of  people  reluctant  to  give  any  heed  to 
it!  .  .  . 

I  cannot  conceive  of  Mr.  Shaw  doing  just  that 
thing  because  his  wit  would  save  him  from  it;  but 
I  feel  that  if  his  wit  were  taken  from  him  or  had 
been  denied  to  him,  he  would  have  behaved  ex- 
actly as  Sheehy  Skeffington  behaved  then.  It  is 
his  superb,  spontaneous  wit  that  keeps  him  in  con- 
tinuous contact  with  normal  men.     Synge  had  no 

[206] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

wit,  and  because  he  had  not,  was  thrust  into  soli- 
tude. Skeffington  had  no  wit  .  .  .  there  never 
was  on  earth  a  man  so  destitue  of  a  sense  of  hu- 
mour as  Francis  Skeffington  .  .  .  and  because  he 
had  not,  he  lived  a  life  of  intellectual  isolation 
from  his  fellows  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  most 
people  liked  him.  Skeffington's  courage  and  hon- 
esty .  .  .  and  I  have  known  few  men  so  coura- 
geous and  honest  as  he  was  .  .  .  served  him  partly, 
but  not  wholly,  as  Mr.  Shaw's  wit  serves  him.  Mr. 
Shaw  has  great  intellectual  courage  and  is  a  very 
honest  man,  but  these  qualities,  though  they  win 
respect  in  the  long  run,  have  an  isolating  effect  on 
a  man  in  such  a  world  as  this,  and  were  it  not  for 
his  wit,  he  would  be  an  Ishmael,  too.  Take  the 
wit  from  Mr.  Shaw  and  the  courage  from  Sheehy 
Skeffington,  substitute  for  them  a  fractious  sense  of 
beauty,  and  the  result  is  .  .  .  John  Millington 
Synge. 


Mr.  Chesterton  has  illustrated  the  peculiar  qual- 
ity of  the  English  mind  by  comparing  the  roads  of 
France  with  the  roads  of  England;  and  the  com- 

[207] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

parison  might  be  used  to  illustrate  the  difference 
between  the  mind  of  Mr.  Shaw  and  the  mind  of  the 
average  man.  Mr.  Chesterton,  with  that  startling 
profundity  that  is  to  be  discovered  in  much  of  his 
writing  that  seems  at  first  merely  to  be  conjuring 
stuff,  asserts  that  the  design  of  English  and  French 
roads,  the  first  all  winding  and  irregular,  the  sec- 
ond straight  as  if  drawn  with  the  aid  of  a  ruler, 
shows  a  fundamental  difference  between  the  two 
races:  the  English  as  wayward  and  casual  as  their 
roads,  going  lazily  and  easily  to  their  journey's 
end ;  the  French  as  logical  and  well-defined  as  their 
roads,  going  without  any  circumlocution  to  their 
journey's  end.  Mr.  Shaw's  mind  goes  directly  to 
its  goal,  and  he  tries  to  persuade  the  rest  of  man- 
kind to  follow  his  example.  But  the  rest  of  man- 
kind does  not  wish  to  go  by  the  most  direct  route  to 
any  goal:  it  wants  to  dally  on  the  ways;  it  wants  to 
explore  all  the  little  bye-paths  and  hidden  corners; 
it  even  wants  to  turn  back  on  its  course  to  examine 
again  some  place  that  it  has  already  seen;  and 
above  all,  it  wants  to  waste  time.  When  Mr.  Shaw 
contemplates  the  world  engaged  in  this  careless 
way  of  living,  he  bursts  into  a  passion  of  wit  where 
less  gifted  men,  such  as  Sheehy  Skeffington,  would 

[208] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

burst  into  anger;  and  he  lashes  the  world  with  his 
tongue.  Mankind,  because  Mr.  Shaw  is  a  genius, 
listens  to  him,  as  mankind  always  has  listened  to 
men  of  genius,  in  a  puzzled  fashion,  and  even  spec- 
ulates on  whether  it  ought  not  to  follow  his  ad- 
vice; but  it  is  in  the  nature  of  man  to  be  illogical, 
and  so,  after  a  little  thought,  man  goes  on  being 
wayward  and  casual.  Even  in  France,  where  logic 
has  become  an  obsession,  men  are  more  illogical 
than  Mr.  Shaw  would  have  them  be;  and  it  is  a 
very  curious  commentary  on  his  work  that  in  so 
logical  a  country  as  France,  his  plays  make  far 
less  stir  than  in  any  other  country  in  Europe.  I 
imagine  that  the  French  are  so  cursed  with  logic 
that  their  minds  revolt  from  the  extreme  reasoning 
of  Mr.  Shaw  as  an  overloaded  stomach  revolts 
from  rich  food.  Once,  in  France,  when  my  bat- 
talion was  marching  along  a  road  towards  a  part 
of  the  country  in  which  we  had  been  some  weeks 
before,  I  heard  a  soldier  in  my  platoon  saying  to 
his  comrade  as  we  came  to  familiar  places,  "Thank 
God,  they've  cut  down  those  bloody  trees!"  and 
immediately  I  understood  why  the  French  roads 
bored  the  British  soldier.  That  inexorable  logic, 
all  that  neatness,  those  terribly  straight  roads  with 

[209] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  trees  growing  at  regular  intervals  .  .  .  "dress- 
ing by  the  right"  as  the  soldiers  said,  and  looking 
as  if  the  men  who  planted  them  had  performed  the 
operation  according  to  some  mathematical  for- 
mula ...  all  these  things,  inhumanly  tidy  and 
well-ordered,  nauseated  the  mind.  I  have  done 
much  walking  on  English  and  French  roads,  and  I 
will  wager  that  boredom  will  seize  the  traveller  on 
a  French  road  long  before  his  interest  on  an  English 
road  has  been  exhausted.  And  in  their  unintellec- 
tual,  instinctive,  wayward  fashion,  the  English  are 
more  right  about  life  than  the  French  are.  Mr. 
Shaw,  I  imagine,  is  incapable  of  understanding 
the  state  of  mind  of  my  soldier  who  thanked  God 
that  the  neatly-arranged  trees  on  the  neatly-de- 
signed French  road  had  been  cut  down.  To  him 
it  would  seem  right  that  if  trees  are  to  be  grown 
at  all,  they  should  be  grown  according  to  formula. 
He  sees  something  stupid  and  wrong  in  the  Eng- 
lish method  of  planting  an  acorn  in  any  hole  that 
is  visible  and  letting  the  tree  grow  as  it  pleases. 


[210] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

VI 

In  the  chapter  on  Mr.  Wells,  I  have  printed  an 
account  of  Mr.  Shaw's  religious  faith  which  ought 
properly  to  be  printed  here,  but  since  the  reader 
can  more  easily  turn  to  the  next  chapter  than  I 
can  re-write  it,  I  will  leave  the  account  where  it  is 
and  proceed  with  an  account  of  the  latest  develop- 
ments of  this  faith  as  set  forth  in  "Heartbreak 
House"  and  "Back  to  Methusaleh."  These  two 
plays  are  notable  for  a  growth  of  religious  con- 
viction in  their  author  which  has  brought  him  to  a 
condition  resembling,  in  the  eyes  of  some,  that 
of  John  the  Baptist  and,  in  the  eyes  of  others  (as 
I  heard  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Ireland 
angrily  assert)  that  of  a  religious  fanatic.  They 
are  also  notable  for  a  weakening  of  technical  skill 
as  a  dramatist.  Mr.  Shaw  has  set  himself  so  ably 
to  the  task  of  rejecting  drama  from  his  plays,  that 
unconsciously  he  ruins  the  effect  of  his  lines  by  an 
excess  of  garrulity.  No  one,  reading  and  particu- 
larly seeing,  "Heartbreak  House"  and  "Back  to 
Methusaleh"  can  escape  from  the  belief  that  Mr. 
Shaw  is  using  more  words  than  are  necessary  to 
express  his   thought.     Either  he   despises  us   as 

[211] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

people  who  are  not  sufficiently  intelligent  to  un- 
derstand his  meaning  unless  it  is  delivered  to  us 
in  a  variety  of  sentences  or  he  has  lost  his  artistic 
sense  and  cannot  understand  that  a  fine  morning 
is  not  any  finer  for  being  described  somewhat  in 
this  fashion:  "A  fine  morning  is  one  on  which 
the  sun  shines  from  a  blue  sky  in  which  occasional 
white  clouds  may  be  seen.  This  morning  is  such 
a  morning  as  that.  Therefore,  this  is  a  fine  morn- 
ing. What  a  fine  morning!"  The  whole  of  that 
extravagant  speech,  invented  by  me,  not  by  Mr. 
Shaw,  is  contained  in  the  last  four  words.  The 
rest  is  not  only  excess,  but  insult,  for  it  implies 
an  ignorance  in  the  person  listening  to  it  which  is 
not  human.  There  are  many  passages  in  these  two 
plays  which  are  not  unlike  that  invented  passage 
of  mine.  There  is  a  passage  near  the  beginning 
of  the  second  act  of  "Heartbreak  House"  which 
seems  to  me  to  indicate  a  real  decline  in  Mr.  Shaw's 
sense  of  the  theatre.  Ellie  Dunn  and  Boss  Man- 
gan,  to  whom  she  is  thinking  of  getting  engaged, 
are  discussing  themselves  and  marriage.  He  has 
just  described  himself  in  terms  which  show  that 
lie  is  one  of  those  financial  ruffians  who  are  the 

[212] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

modern  equivalent,  (not  of  highwaymen,  for  they 
were  gay  and  adventurous  fellows,)  but  of  slave- 
drivers  : 

Mangan.  .  .  .  Now  what  do  you  think  of  me,  Miss 
Ellie? 

Ellie  {dropping  her  hands) :  How  strange!  that  my 
mother,  who  knew  nothing  at  all  about  business,  should 
have  been  quite  right  about  you!  She  always  said — 
not  before  papa,  of  course,  but  to  us  children — that  you 
were  just  that  sort  of  a  man. 

Mangan  (sitting  up  much  hurt):  Oh!  did  she? 
And  yet  she'd  have  let  you  marry  me. 

Ellie:  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Mangan,  my  mother  mar- 
ried a  very  good  man — for  whatever  you  may  think  of 
my  father  as  a  man  of  business,  he  is  the  soul  of  good- 
ness— and  she  is  not  at  all  keen  on  my  doing  the  same. 

The  parenthetical  clause  in  each  of  Ellie's 
speeches  is  unnecessary,  and  in  the  second  speech, 
it  has  the  effect  of  ruining  a  very  good  "line."  I 
assert,  as  a  dramatist  with  some  technical  skill, 
that  Ellie's  second  speech,  minus  the  parenthetical 
clause,  will  rouse  laughter  every  time  it  is  spoken. 
I  assert,  with  equal  confidence,  that  this  speech, 
with  the  parenthetical  clause,  will  not  provoke 
more  than  a  strangled  laugh  and  may  not  provoke 

[213] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

any  laughter  at  all.  Mr.  Shaw  is  entitled  to  reject 
laughter  if  he  thinks  it  is  likely  to  destroy  the 
thought  in  his  speech,  but  no  one  can  believe  that 
the  parenthetical  clause  to  which  I  object  adds 
anything  to  Ellie's  thought.  It  is  mere  redundance, 
and  redundance  is  destructive  of  drama.  It  is 
also  destructive  of  thought  for  a  man  is  more 
likely  to  be  irritated  than  to  be  stimulated  by  hear- 
ing a  thing  repeated  to  excess. 

I  may,  perhaps,  note  another  matter  of  techni- 
cal interest  to  the  student  of  the  Shavian  drama, 
namely,  Mr.  Shaw's  economy  in  characters.  He 
has  or  had  a  strong  sense  of  the  theatre  which  is 
almost  as  strong  as  that  possessed  by  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy. The  difficulty  a  critic  has  in  estimating 
Mr.  Shaw's  sense  of  the  theatre  is  increased  by 
the  wilfulness  with  which  he  rejects  technique: 
one  is  not  always  able  to  decide  whether  the  lack 
of  technique  in  the  later  plays  is  the  result  of  in- 
tention or  weakness.  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  nearly 
the  cleverest  technician  now  writing  for  the  Eng- 
lish theatre.  He  cannot  think  as  clearly  as  Mr. 
Shaw  can,  but  he  can  construct  much  better. 
When  Mr.  Galsworthy  treats  a  theme  dramatic  in 

[214] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

itself,  such  as  the  theme  of  "Loyalties,"  and  does 
not  entangle  the  drama  with  arguments,  he  writes 
an  uncommonly  good  play.  "Loyalties"  has  been 
called  a  "crook"  play  and  in  a  sense  it  is  one,  but 
the  difference  between  it  and  such  a  piece  as  "The 
Bat"  by  Mrs.  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart  and  Mr. 
Avery  Hopwood  is  the  difference  between  a  crook 
play  written  in  terms  of  reality  and  a  crook 
play  written  in  terms  of  trick.  When,  however, 
Mr.  Galsworthy  treats  a  theme  not  dramatic  in  it- 
self, such  as  the  theme  of  "Windows,"  and  en- 
tangles any  drama  it  has  with  much  argument, 
the  result  is  something  extraordinarily  diffuse  and 
nebulous.  Mr.  Galsworthy  leaves  you  with  a  sen- 
sation, not  only  that  you  do  not  know  what  he 
means,  but  also  that  he  does  not  know  what  he 
means.  Mr.  Shaw,  in  his  later  pieces,  leaves  you 
with  the  sensation  that  he  knows  only  too  well  what 
he  means,  but  he  will  never  admit  that  you  are 
capable  of  understanding  him.  His  economy  in 
characters  is  a  certain  sign  of  his  mysticism.  Mr. 
Yeats  told  me  on  one  occasion  that  when  Sir  Hor- 
ace Plunkett  invited  "A.  E."  to  take  a  prominent 
position  in  the  organization  of  co-operative  agri- 
culture in  Ireland,  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour  commended 

[215] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  choice  on  the  ground  that  a  mystic  is  the  most 
practical  of  men  since  he  is  willing  to  use  any  in- 
strument that  will  serve  his  purpose,  whereas  your 
plain,  blunt  business  man,  destitute  of  imagination 
and  firm  purpose,  will  quarrel  with  his  tools  and 
end  up  by  botching  his  job.  The  mystic,  more- 
over, serves  his  purpose  more  than  himself, 
whereas  your  plain,  blunt  business  man  serves 
only  himself.  Mr.  Shaw's  method  of  working  is 
singularly  interesting  as  a  demonstration  of  the 
way  in  which  the  mystic  achieves  his  purpose.  I 
do  not  know  of  any  writer  who  is  so  thrifty  with 
his  means  as  Mr.  Shaw.  Shakespeare,  compared 
with  him,  is  a  prodigal  and  a  spendthrift.  Mr. 
Shaw,  compared  with  Shakespeare,  is  a  miser, 
uniquely  stingy.  But  it  is  not  stinginess  which 
has  made  Mr.  Shaw  so  economical  in  his  char- 
acters and  even  in  his  situations.  It  is  his  mys- 
ticism which  makes  him  extraordinarily  indifferent 
to  his  means.  Any  old  plot,  however  disreputable 
it  might  be,  would  serve  Shakespeare  for  draw- 
ing on  to  the  stage  a  crowd  of  dissimilar  persons 
and  enriching  their  lives  with  his  verse;  and  any 
old  character,  however  remote  from  human  sem- 
blance will  serve  Mr.  Shaw  as  a  vent  for  opinions. 

[216] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Shakespeare  primarily  was  interested  in  people. 
Mr.  Shaw  primarily  is  interested  in  doctrine.  The 
principal  difference  between  a  dramatist  who  is 
interested  in  people  and  a  dramatist  who  is  inter- 
ested in  doctrines,  is  that  the  former  will  delight 
in  the  creation  of  the  greatest  variety  of  charac- 
ters whereas  the  latter  will  not  trouble  to  create 
a  new  character  if  an  old  one  will  do.  I  doubt 
whether  there  are  more  than  twelve  distinct  per- 
sons in  the  whole  of  Mr.  Shaw's  work.  When 
he  began  his  career  as  a  dogmatist,  he  set  himself 
to  writing  novels,  but  found  after  he  had  written 
five,  of  which  only  four  have  been  published,  that 
he  could  not  use  this  instrument  so  effectively  for 
his  purpose  as  he  could  use  the  instrument  of  the 
play.  And  so  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  stage. 
But  he  did  not  waste  his  novels:  he  dramatised 
them.  He  lifted  passages  from  his  books  and  put 
them  into  his  plays.  He  took  some  of  the  novel- 
characters  and,  after  he  had  tidied  them  and 
changed  their  names,  forced  them  from  between 
their  covers  on  to  the  stage.  There  is  little  in 
the  thirty-eight  plays  he  has  written  which  is  not 
to  be  found,  developed  or  suggested,  in  his  four 
novels.     He  has  preached  one  doctrine  all  his  life, 

[217] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

and  has  preached  it  with  singular  consistency.  It 
is  set  out  in  the  succeeding  chapter  to  this  one. 
The  parsimoniousness  with  which  it  has  been 
preached  is  remarkable.  The  whole  of  the  first 
act  of  "Major  Barbara"  is  almost  identically  a  re- 
petition of  the  first  act  of  "You  Never  Can  Tell." 
Lady  Britomart  Undershaft,  of  the  first  piece,  is 
Mrs.  Clandon,  of  the  second,  under  another  name. 
The  situation  of  two  women  is  nearly  the  same. 
They  are  living  apart  from  their  husbands  whom 
they  have  not  seen  for  a  number  of  years.  Lady 
Britomart  and  Mrs.  Clandon  have  each  two  daugh- 
ters and  a  son  with  the  haziest  or  no  recollections 
of  their  fathers.  A  meeting  between  the  two 
parents  and  their  children  is  arranged,  in  each 
case,  on  a  flimsy  pretext.  Lady  Britomart,  like 
Mrs.  Clandon,  is  one  of  those  strong-minded,  silly 
women  who  flourish,  nowadays,  more  commonly 
in  America  than  in  England.  (She  is  the  sort  of 
dense  female  who  belongs  to  the  Lucy  Stone  Lea- 
gue and  refuses  to  bear  the  name  of  the  man  she 
has  chosen  to  be  her  husband  although  she  is  will- 
ing to  bear  the  name  of  the  man  whom  she  did  not 
choose  to  be  her  father!)  Lady  Britomart,  like 
Mrs.  Clandon,  has  abandoned  her  husband  for  a 

[218] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

particularly  fatuous  cause.  Mr.  Crampton  (for 
Mrs.  Clandon  is  really  Mrs.  Crampton)  was  de- 
prived of  his  wife's  society  (which  was  probably 
no  great  loss)  and  that  of  his  children  (which 
probably  was)  because  he  very  properly  spanked 
his  elder  daughter  when  she  had  been  naughty. 
Lady  Britomart  left  her  husband  because  he  de- 
clined to  change  the  basis  of  his  armaments- 
factory  in  the  interests  of  his  son.  Her  excuse  for 
her  behaviour  was  more  natural  than  Mrs.  Clan- 
don's  excuse  for  hers,  for  we  are  all  susceptible  to 
the  attractions  of  primogeniture;  but  a  more  sensi- 
ble woman  might  have  achieved  her  purpose  in  be- 
ing less  headstrong.  Barbara  Undershaft,  her  elder 
daughter,  is  Gloria  Clandon,  a  little  older  and  less 
priggish.  Sarah  Undershaft,  her  younger  daughter, 
is  a  chastened  and  spiritless  Dolly  Clandon.  There 
is  a  difference,  however,  between  Stephen  Under- 
shaft and  Philip  Clandon  so  remarkable  that  I  can 
only  surmise  that  Mr.  Shaw  in  transferring  the 
Clandon  family  into  the  Undershaft  family  mislaid 
Philip  and,  in  searching  for  him,  discovered  an- 
other youth,  this  Stephen,  who  was  the  product  of 
an  illicit  love  affair  between  Mrs.  Clandon  and  the 
austere  Finch  McComas!     Adolphus  Cusins,  the 

[219] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

Professor  of  Greek  who  beats  the  big  drum  in  the 
Salvation  Army  so  that  he  may  be  near  to  Barbara, 
is  Valentine,  the  dentist,  dragged  out  of  "You 
Never  Can  Tell,"  after  a  brief  and  misguided  ca- 
reer as  John  Tanner  in  "Man  and  Superman." 

It  is  easy,  I  think,  to  trace  the  life  of  each  one 
of  the  twelve  Shavian  characters  in  this  fashion. 
Consider,  for  example,  the  vivid  and  very  inter- 
esting career  of  that  brutal  ruffian,  Bill  Walker, 
in  "Major  Barbara."  Bill  began  his  life  in 
"Widowers'  Houses"  under  the  name  of  Lickcheese 
and  flourished  so  well  as  a  speculative  property- 
owner  that  he  was  able  to  climb  into  middle-class 
society,  under  the  name  of  Burgess,  and  marry 
his  daughter  Candida  to  the  Reverend  James 
Mavor  Morell.  His  association  with  the  clergy, 
however,  must  have  had  a  disastrous  effect  on  him 
for  we  find  him,  in  "Captain  Brassbound's  Con- 
version," leading  an  adventurous,  but  misunder- 
stood, career  under  the  name  of  Drinkwater.  Re- 
ligion had  peculiar  allurements  for  Drinkwater, 
understandably  enough  when  one  remembers  his 
former  association  with  his  son-in-law,  the  clergy- 
man, and  we  are  not  surprised,  therefore,  to  find 
him  in  the  Salvation  Army's  West  Ham  Shelter, 

[220] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

now  named  Bill  Walker  and  looking  less  than  his 
years.  He  suffers  terribly  from  the  spiritual  gar- 
rulity of  Major  Barbara.  The  reader  who  is  fam- 
iliar with  the  play  will  remember  that  Bill  cruelly 
misused  a  little  Salvation  Army  lass,  called  Jenny 
Hill,  who  would  keep  on  praying  for  him  and  turn- 
ing the  other  cheek.  He  struck  her  on  the  mouth 
and  twisted  her  arm  and  almost  tore  her  hair  out 
by  the  roots.  She  cried  with  the  pain,  but  she 
went  on  praying  for  him!  .  .  .  Then  Major  Bar- 
bara twisted  Bill's  heart  for  him  as  cruelly  as  he 
had  twisted  Jenny  Hill's  arm,  by  preaching  with 
terrible  iteration  the  doctrine  of  forgiveness  and 
non-resistance.  We  know  how  Bill,  at  the  penul- 
timate moment,  escaped  from  the  penitent  form, 
but  few  of  us  realise  what  happened  to  him  after 
he  had  fled,  precipitately  and  full  of  bitter  cyni- 
cism, from  that  Salvation  Army  Shelter  in  West 
Ham.  Who  could  have  believed,  after  witnessing 
his  behaviour  in  the  presence  of  Barbara  and 
snivelling  Jenny  Hill,  that  Jenny  Hill  herself 
would  be  the  means  of  his  undoing  in  the  wilds 
of  America  to  which  he  had  hurried  under  the 
name  of  Blanco  Posnet?  And  here  we  discover  a 
characteristic  example  of  Mr.  Shaw's  sardonic  hu- 

[221] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

mour.  For  Bill  was  nabbed,  not  by  the  strong 
Barbara,  not  even  by  the  weak,  though  willing, 
Jenny,  but  by  Jenny's  helpless,  croup-stricken 
child.  The  lion  is  caught  by  the  mouse;  the  strong 
are  brought  down  by  the  weak;  a  little  child  shall 
lead  them  into  a  trap.  God,  in  Mr.  Shaw's  re- 
ligion, is  not  a  just  God:  he  is  a  God  determined 
to  have  His  own  way  and  entirely  indifferent  to 
the  desires  of  His  creatures.  If  man  will  not  help 
God  to  fulfil  His  purpose,  then  God  will  destroy 
man  and  invent  another  and  more  submissive  in- 
strument whereby  He  may  do  so.  Such  is  the 
Shavian  gospel.  In  what  respect  does  it  differ 
from  the  most  devastating  and  blasting  form  of 
Calvinism?  When  I  was  a  child  in  Belfast,  I 
was  taught  that  if  I  persisted  "in  being  a  wicked 
boy,  I  would  be  roasted  for  ever  in  a  red-hot 
hell.  Is  there  any  real  difference  between  the 
Calvinist  who  tells  a  child  that  he  will  be  burned 
for  all  eternity  and  Mr.  Shaw  who  tells  it  that  it 
will  be  scrapped  for  all  eternity.  There  is  one 
difference,  in  favour  of  the  Calvinist.  I  was 
taught  to  believe  in  the  All-Perfection  of  God. 
Even  if  I  persisted  in  being  a  wicked  child  and 
thus  damned  myself  for  ever,  my  relatives  could 

[222] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

comfort  themselves  with  the  reflection  that  God 
would  fulfil  Himself  in  His  own  time.  Some- 
where, somewhen,  there  would  be  "peace,  perfect 
peace."  But  Mr.  Shaw's  God  offers  no  such  guar- 
antee. He  cannot  assure  us,  even  if  we  help  Him 
by  every  means  in  our  power,  that  He  will  ever 
become  perfect.  He  makes  inexorable  demands 
upon  our  service,  but  cannot  offer  us  any  hope 
that  our  labour  will  not  be  in  vain.  Serve  me 
without  question  or  be  scrapped,  says  the  Shavian 
God,  but  he  will  not  assure  us  that  we  are  not  be- 
ing bilked.  And  is  not  the  desolation  of  desol- 
ations a  religious  faith  in  which  there  is  no  cer- 
tainty and  very  little  hope?  I  prefer  the  romantic 
delusions  of  my  Ulster  forefathers  to  the  practical 
religion  of  Mr.  Shaw.  I  dislike  the  thought  that 
I  may  be  roasted  for  ever  in  a  red-hot  hell,  but 
I  like  even  less  the  coal-black  nullity  with  which 
Mr.  Shaw  threatens  me  if  I  persist  in  my  evil 
courses.  There  will  at  least  be  colour  and  excite- 
ment in  Calvin's  hell,  but  there  will  be  nothing 
whatever  in  Mr.  Shaw's.  And  I  am  not  sure, 
after  all,  that  God,  Perfect  or  Imperfect,  will  not 
prefer  to  spend  eternity  in  the  company  of  people 
like  me  who  decline  to  accept  life  on  any  but  their 

[223] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

own  terms,  rather  than  in  the  society  of  servile 
instruments. 

Mr.  Shaw's  thirty-eight  plays  are  not  thirty-eight 
separate  plays  but  one  long,  continuous  piece,  in 
which  his  twelve  characters,  in  every  conceivable 
disguise  and  situation,  strive  to  elude  the  hand  of 
God  but  are  nabbed  by  Him  in  the  end.  Twist 
how  you  may,  He'll  get  you  in  the  end,  unless, 
indeed,  He  wearies  of  trying  to  make  use  of  you, 
when,  inexorably,  without  a  pang,  He  will  cast 
you  on  to  the  scrap-heap  where  you  will  perish 
utterly  as  your  little  brothers,  the  mammoth  beasts, 
perished  long  ago. 

VII 

Mr.  Shaw  has  some  of  Shakespeare's  careless- 
ness over  details.  I  have  sometimes  wondered  why 
Claudius  succeeded  to  his  brother's  throne  when 
Hamlet  was  alive  to  do  so.  There  is  an  expla- 
nation of  this  curious  succession  in  Frazer's  "The 
Golden  Bough,"  but  I  do  not  suppose  that  the  facts 
cited  by  Sir  James  Frazer  were  known  to  Shake- 
speare and  even  if  it  were,  he  has  not  made  the 
matter  dramatically  clear.     Hamlet  does  not  ap- 

[224] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

pear  to  resent  his  uncle's  accession  to  the  throne  of 
Denmark.  His  resentment  is  roused  by  the  mar- 
riage of  his  mother  to  her  brother-in-law.  He 
probably  never  liked  his  uncle,  but  he  is  willing  to 
live  in  his  castle  as  his  heir.  Shakespeare  was  al- 
ways ready  to  sacrifice  verisimilitude  to  dramatic 
effects.  Ophelia,  for  example,  is  denied  complete 
Christian  burial  because  the  Church  authorities 
suspect  her  of  having  committed  suicide,  although 
the  account  of  her  death  clearly  establishes  that  she 
was  accidentally  drowned  through  the  breaking  of 
a  branch.  Hamlet,  too,  is  unaware  of  Ophelia's 
death  or  dementia  when  he  arrives  in  the  grave- 
yard where  she  is  to  be  buried,  although  he  has 
been  in  the  company  of  Horatio  for  some  time, 
and  Horatio  is  fully  acquainted  with  the  circum- 
stances of  Ophelia's  misfortunes  and  death  and 
knows  that  there  have  been  passages  of  love  be- 
tween Hamlet  and  her.  Very  little  trouble  was 
needed  to  put  these  minor  matters  right,  but  when 
a  god  is  creating  a  universe,  he  is  unlikely  to 
trouble  himself  greatly  about  specks  of  dust.  Mr. 
Shaw  shows  himself  equally  indifferent  to  details 
when  they  no  longer  serve  his  purpose.  He  has 
been  charged  with  spoofing  his  audience  on  occa- 

[225] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

sion,  notably  in  the  first  act  of  "Man  and  Super- 
man" where  he  trumps  up  a  case  of  impending  ma- 
ternity for  shocking  effects,  and  then,  his  purpose 
achieved,  says  no  more  about  it  for  the  remainder 
of  the  play!  He  brings  the  Undershaft  family 
together  in  the  first  act  of  "Major  Barbara"  in  the 
pretence  that  they  are  about  to  discuss  important 
questions  of  family  finance  which  are  never  once 
discussed  during  the  act!  I  do  not  believe  that 
Mr.  Shaw  had  any  intention  of  spoofing  his  au- 
dience when  he  invented  these  situations.  He 
simply  did  not  bother  about  the  details.  He  had 
used  the  effect  for  his  purpose,  and  since  it  was 
no  longer  servicable  to  him,  he  scrapped  it  with- 
out even  troubling  to  clear  away  the  debris — which, 
presumably,  is  what  His  God  will  do  with  us  when 
He  no  longer  needs  us.  Less  happens  in  the  first 
act  of  "Major  Barbara"  than  in  any  other  first 
act  by  Mr.  Shaw.  It  is  a  protasis  from  which  all 
mention  of  plot  is  deliberately  omitted.  Bottom, 
had  he  been  at  Mr.  Shaw's  elbow  while  the  play 
was  being  written,  might  have  begged  him  'iO  "grow 
to  a  point,"  but  Bottom  would  have  had  less; 
success  with  Mr.  Shaw  than  he  had  with  Quince, 

[226] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

for  Bottom's  point  was  a  dramatic  one,  whereas 
Mr.  Shaw's  is  doctrinal;  and  a  propounder  of 
doctrine  pays  little  heeds  to  the  laws  of  stagecraft 
or  anything  else.  The  mystic  gets  his  way  be- 
cause he  can  neither  be  frightened  nor  discon- 
certed. Death  and  Tradition  have  no  terrors  for 
him.  That  is  why,  in  face  of  the  opposition  of 
common  sense  and  practical  experience,  he  always 
does  what  he  wants  to  do. 

VIII 

One  might  profitably  compare  Mr.  Shaw  to  Cas- 
sius  in  "Julius  Caesar."  Marcus  Brutus,  in  that 
play,  is  surely  the  prototype  of  all  muddlers  and 
gentlemanly  idiots.  It  was  he  who,  against  the 
pleas  of  Cassius,  insisted  that  the  life  of  Mark 
Anthony  should  be  spared.  It  was  he  who,  dis- 
regarding the  dissuasions  of  Cassius,  permitted 
Anthony  to  speak  in  the  forum.  It  was  he  who, 
over-ruling  the  arguments  of  Cassius,  ordered  the 
disastrous  march  to  Phillipi.  Cassius  was  the 
wise  man  of  the  two,  though  his  heart  was  made 
impotent  by  his  asperities.     The  resemblance  be- 

[227] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

tween  him  and  Mr.  Shaw  must  not  be  drawn  too 
closely,  but  it  is  sufficient,  as  stated  in  Shakes- 
peare's terms,  to  be  interesting: 

He  reads  much; 
He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men. 

Cassius,  of  course,  loved  no  plays  and  heard  no 
music  and  smiled  with  difficulty;  and  these  disabil- 
ities prevent  him  from  complete  ancestry  to  Mr. 
Shaw;  but,  if,  like  Cassius,  Mr.  Shaw  sometimes 
feels  that  he  has  lived  "to  be  but  mirth  and  laugh- 
ter to  his  Brutus,"  he  can,  like  Cassius  again,  com- 
fort himself  with  the  thought  that  he  was  in  the 
right  when  Brutus  was  in  the  wrong,  and  that  he 
told  him  so.  His  Cassius  mood  is  plainest  in 
"Heartbreak  House."  This  play  is  described  as 
"a  Fantasia  in  the  Russian  manner  on  English 
themes,"  and  was  written,  presumably,  after  Mr. 
Shaw  had  witnessed  performances  of  plays  by 
Chekhov.  That  is  not  to  say,  however,  that  there 
is  any  resemblance  between  the  work  of  Mr.  Shaw 
and  the  Russian  dramatist.  There  isn't.  Mr.  Shaw 
is  as  talkative  as  Chekhov  was  reticent.  Chekhov's 
purpose  is  to  make  his  people  say  as  little  as  pos- 

[228] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

sible:  Mr.  Shaw's  purpose  is  to  make  his  people 
say  a  great  deal  more  than  is  necessary.  Chekhov 
suggests  inactivity  through  dialogue:  Mr.  Shaw  sug- 
gests argumentativeness.  Chekhov  writes  drama: 
Mr.  Shaw  debates.  No  receptive  person  can  come 
away  from  a  performance  of  "The  Cherry  Or- 
chard" unimpressed  by  a  vision  of  life.  A  mod- 
erately-intelligent person,  having  seen  this  play 
with  eyes  of  understanding,  could  write  a  true 
summary  of  the  state  of  Russia  in  the  last  hun- 
dred years.  I  doubt  whether  as  much  can  be  said 
of  "Heartbreak  House,"  the  whole  action  of  which 
(though  action  is  an  inappropriate  word  to  use 
about  it)  takes  place  in  the  course  of  an  afternoon 
and  evening,  inside  six  or  seven  hours,  in  England 
soon  after  the  outbreak  of  the  War.  There  is, 
however,  no  mention  of  the  War  in  the  play,  and 
the  only  link  between  them  is  the  sudden  interrup- 
tion of  the  conversation  in  the  last  act  by  an  air- 
raid, as  a  result  of  which  two  of  the  characters  are 
blown  to  pieces.  There  is  some  clumsiness  in  the 
use  of  this  device  for  ending  the  play,  artistically 
at  all  events,  though  that  is  a  consideration  which 
is  unlikely  to  move  Mr.  Shaw  much,  but,  ethically 
and  socially,  it  is  not  clumsy  at  all,  for  "Heart- 

[229] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

break  House"  is  less  a  play  than  a  parable.  The 
bombs  drop  as  suddenly,  and  with  as  little  warn- 
ing, on  the  gifted  conversationalists  sitting  in  the 
dusky  garden  as  the  War  burst  upon  Europe  in 
1914.  There  we  were,  all  of  us,  living  pleasantly, 
as  Burke  begged  us  to  live,  and  committing  our 
affairs  into  the  hands  of  men  concerning  whose 
abilities  to  conduct  them  we  had  no  certificates — 
and  suddenly  the  ship  ran  on  to  the  rocks,  the  train 
went  off  the  rails,  the  ceiling  fell.  "I'm  always 
expecting  something,"  says  Ellie  Dunn  in  the  last 
act.  "I  don't  know  what  it  is;  but  life  must  come 
to  a  point  some  time."  And  while  she  and  her 
companions  are  arguing  about  the  responsibility 
for  the  mess  in  which  the  world  is,  bombs  drop 
out  of  heaven  and  life  comes  to  a  full  stop: 

Hector:  And  this  ship  that  we  are  all  in?  This 
soul's  prison  we  call  England? 

Captain  Shotover:  The  captain  is  in  his  bunk,  drink- 
ing bottled  ditch-water;  and  the  crew  is  gambling  in  the 
forcastle.  She  will  strike  and  sink  and  split.  Do  you 
think  the  laws  of  God  will  be  suspended  in  favour  of 
England  because  you  were  born  in  it? 

Hector:  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  be  drowned  like  a  rat 
in  a  trap.  I  still  have  the  will  to  live.  What  am  I  to 
do? 

[230] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

Captain  Shotover:  Do?  Nothing  simpler.  Learn 
your  business  as  an  Englishman. 

Hector:  And  what  may  my  business  as  an  English- 
man be,  pray? 

Captain  Shotover:  Navigation.  Learn  it  and  live; 
or  leave  it  and  be  damned. 

In  other  words  of  Mr.  Shaw's,  if  you  do  not  help 
God  to  perfect  Himself,  He  will  scrap  you.  This 
play,  in  some  respects  the  best  that  Mr.  Shaw  has 
written,  is  full  of  mad  laughter,  of  bitter,  self- 
mocking,  torturing  laughter.  I  knew  a  man  who 
burst  into  shrieks  of  laughter  when  he  saw  a 
comrade  blown  into  the  air  by  a  German  shell; 
but  if  any  one  imagines  that  that  man's  terrible 
mirth  came  from  an  unkindly  heart,  he  imagines 
without  understanding;  for  "even  in  laughter  the 
heart  is  sorrowful,  and  the  end  of  that  mirth  is 
heaviness."  I  feel  about  "Heartbreak  House"  ex- 
actly as  I  felt  about  my  friend  who  laughed  when 
his  comrade  was  blown  up  and  dismembered:  that 
here  is  a  depth  of  feeling  which  cannot  be  fath- 
omed. Like  Job,  Mr.  Shaw  cries  out,  "changes 
and  war  are  against  me,"  but,  unlike  Job,  he  finds 
no  comfort  in  the  end.  "If  men  will  not  learn 
until  their  lessons  are  written  in  blood,  why,  blood 

[231] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

they  must  have,  their  own  for  preference."  As  for 
him,  he  throws  up  the  sponge.  Our  culture  is  but 
the  plaything  of  fribbles;  our  democracy  is  merely 
government  of  fools  by  fools.  "The  question  is," 
said  Boswell  to  Dr.  Johnson  and  Mr.  Cambridge, 
"which  is  worst,  one  wild  beast  or  many?"  And 
the  answer,  in  Mr.  Shaw's  terms,  is  "Both!"  He 
sees  man,  according  to  this  play,  refusing  to  help 
God  to  perfect  Himself,  deliberately  thwarting 
God,  and  he  almost  sees  him  already  on  the  scrap- 
heap. 

In  "Back  to  Methusaleh,"  he  seems  to  me  to 
have  suffered  a  spiritual  set-back,  and  to  be  pre- 
occupied by  material  considerations.  We  are  no 
longer  concerned  with  Man's  Destiny  and  God's 
Purpose,  but  with  matters  of  mere  longevity.  "So 
much  to  do — so  little  time  in  which  to  do  it!" 
If  man  could  live  for  three  hundred  or  three  thou- 
sand or  thirty  thousand  years,  he  would  then  have 
time  in  which  to  profit  by  his  experience — so  Mr. 
Shaw's  argument  seems  to  run.  But  would  he? 
Do  any  of  us  profit  by  our  experience?  If  we 
could  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  our  lives  and 
start  again  with  the  knowledge  we  had  acquired  in 

[232] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  previous  existence,  we  might  be  able  to  avoid 
this  or  that  mistake.  But  we  cannot  do  that.  Each 
experience  is  a  new  one,  and  the  wisdom  we  have 
gained  from  those  through  which  we  have  passed 
is  of  little  help  to  us  in  dealing  with  the  new  one, 
particularly  if  it  comes  upon  us,  as  most  of  the 
critical  events  of  life  do  come  upon  us,  unex- 
pectedly, without  warning.  There  is  not  much 
difference,  except  physically,  between  the  Mr. 
Shaw  who  wrote  "Candida"  and  the  Mr.  Shaw  who 
wrote  "Back  to  Methusaleh,"  and  I  do  not  believe 
that  he  would  be  much,  if  any  different,  at  the  age 
of  three  hundred  or  thirty  thousand  from  what  he 
now  is.  Man  may  develop  this  or  that  aspect  of 
himself  more  than  another,  but  essentially  he  re- 
mains the  same.  It  is  not  length  of  years  that  is 
important  to  us,  but  what  we  do  in  them.  Keats 
and  Shelley  were  young  when  they  died:  Tenny- 
son was  old;  but  the  length  of  their  years  seems 
immaterial  to  their  reputation.  Mr.  Shaw  tells  us 
that  if  we  will  hard  enough,  we  can  achieve 
longevity,  but,  apart  from  the  fact  that  longevity 
first  happens  in  his  play  to  people  who  have  not 
willed  it,  but  had  it  thrust  upon  them,  I  am  puzzled 
to  understand  how  Mr.  Shaw  expects  mankind  to 

[233] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

will  a  state  of  existence  which,  portrayed  by 
him,  is  extraordinarily  repellent.  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  born  at  the  age  of  seventeen  out  of  an  egg 
so  that  I  may  become  a  He-Ancient  and  live  foi 
thousands  of  years  in  a  state  of  inactive  ratiocina- 
tion. And  if  a  life  of  thought  without  action 
does  not  attract  my  fancy,  how  can  I  be  ex* 
pected  to  aspire  to  it?  I  cannot  find  anything 
in  the  long  lives  of  Mr.  Shaw's  characters  which 
seems  to  me  likely  to  excite  the  desire  and 
hope  of  mankind.  The  He-Ancients  and  the  She- 
Ancients  are  morose  and  sterile,  ugly  and  un- 
sociable, hairless  and  unhappy,  liable  to  death 
by  discouragement,  long,  lean  and  hopeless. 
I  would  rather  be  scrapped!  .  .  .  Nor  is  there 
any  greater  virtue  in  the  long-lived  than  there  is 
in  us.  In  "The  Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman" 
(the  fourth  act  of  "Back  to  Methusaleh")  where 
mankind  is  divided  into  two  classes,  the  long-lived 
and  the  short-lived,  we  discover  that  the  long-lived 
spend  their  three  hundred  years  of  existence  in 
humbugging  the  short-lived.  .  .  .  Man  that  is  born 
of  woman  hath  but  a  short  time  to  live,  and  is 
full  of  misery.  He  cometh  up,  and  is  cut  down, 
like  a  flower:  he  fleeth  as  it  were  a  shadow,  and 

[234] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF    MY   ELDERS 

never  continueth  in  one  place;  but,  in  spite  of  his 
misery  and  the  shortness  of  his  life,  he  gets  more 
fun  and  satisfaction  than  are  likely  to  be  enjoyed 
by  man  that  is  born  out  of  an  egg. 

IX 

I  remember  very  vividly  the  first  occasion  on 
which  I  saw  and  heard  Mr.  Shaw.  He  was  lectur- 
ing on  "Some  Necessary  Repairs  to  Religion"  to 
a  religious  organization,  now  defunct,  called 
"The  Guild  of  St.  Mathew."  His  lecture  was  ex- 
traordinarily startling  to  a  young  man,  fresh  from 
Belfast  and  still  influenced  by  his  fathers'  faith, 
although  in  revolt  against  much  of  it.  When  the 
lecture  was  over,  a  lady  asked  him  to  say  what  his 
belief  was  about  the  Resurrection,  and  he  replied, 
that  if  she  would  promise  not  to  tell  any  one,  he 
would  say  that  he  did  not  believe  it  ever  took  place. 
And  then  came  one  of  those  strange  lapses  from 
serious  argument  which  are  characteristic  of  him. 
Another  questioner  asked  him  if  he  believed  in  the 
Immaculate  Conception.  "Of  course  I  do,"  he 
said.  "I  believe  that  all  conceptions  are  immacu- 
late!"    The  questioner  was  so  paralysed  by  this 

[235] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

reply  that  she  sat  down  without  pointing  out  to 
him  that  the  Catholic  Church  believes  in  the  Im- 
maculate Conception  on  the  assumption  that  all 
conceptions  are  not  immaculate.  On  many  oc- 
casions, Mr.  Shaw  has  brilliantly  dodged  the  point 
in  that  manner;  but  they  are  not  occasions  that 
need  be  remembered  against  him.  Ever  and  al- 
ways he  has  given  his  best  and  hardest  thought  to 
the  service  of  mankind.  He  has  practiced  what 
he  preaches,  and  if  we  are  thrown  on  the  scrap- 
heap,  it  will  not  be  because  Mr.  Shaw  has  failed 
to  do  his  uttermost  to  help  God  to  realise  Himself. 
What  a  shock  it  will  be  to  him  to  find  that  the 
scrap-heap  is  a  more  likeable  place  than  his  God's 
heaven! 

X 

He  is  greatly  generous  to  young  men.  Like 
most  of  my  contemporaries  I  have  imposed  upon 
his  good  nature  very  often.  I  sent  "Jane  Clegg" 
and  "John  Ferguson"  in  manuscript  to  him  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  read  them  and  tell  me  what 
his  opinion  of  them  might  be.  Probably  a  dozen 
or  more  young  men  were  doing  exactly  the  same 

[236] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

thing  with  their  MSS.  He  could  spend  the  whole 
of  his  time  reading  other  men's  plays,  if  he  were 
to  let  his  good  nature  go  uncontrolled.  But  he 
read  my  plays  and  wrote  long,  valuable  letters 
of  advice  about  them  to  me.  I  hesitate  to  mention 
this  fact  lest  it  should  cause  an  avalanche  of  MSS. 
to  fall  upon  him,  but  I  am  trying  to  draw  his  por- 
trait, and  unless  I  mention  his  generosity  to  young 
men,  the  portrait  will  not  be  a  faithful  one.  I 
am  under  personal  obligations  to  him  of  many 
sorts,  and  I  do  not  know  of  any  man  who  so  freely 
helps  his  friends  and  says  so  little  about  it.  He 
is  now  sixty-six  years  old,  but  there  are  no  signs 
of  age  about  him  other  than  the  fact  that  his  hair 
and  his  beard,  once  red,  have  turned  white.  He 
still  has  the  mind  and  eagerness  of  a  young  man. 
His  walk  is  as  springy  and  alert  as  it  was  when  I 
first  knew  him,  as  I  am  sure  it  has  always  been. 
When  I  see  him  in  the  street  sometimes,  tall,  lean, 
very  tidy  and  almost  foppish  in  an  unusual  way, 
walking  with  great  assurance  and  ease,  examining 
now  and  then  his  very  shapely  hands,  and  gazing 
about  him  with  that  queer,  quizzical,  kindly  look 
in  his  pleasant  eyes  that  is  so  significant  of  him, 
I  feel  that  although  he  is  thirty  years  older  than 

[237] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

I  am,  according  to  the  official  records,  he  is,  in 
spirit,  thirty  years  younger.  He  will  never  be  old. 
If  he  lives  to  be  a  centenarian,  he  will  still  be  talk- 
ing like  a  young  man;  and  perhaps  it  is  his  ex- 
traordinary youth  and  vitality,  as  much  as  his  dis- 
respect for  established  things,  that  draws  young 
men  inevitably  to  him.  His  fearless,  challenging 
spirit  attracted  all  those  who  were  in  revolt  against 
stagnant  beliefs;  and  even  now,  when  the  multi- 
tude seems  to  have  caught  up  with  him  and  his 
views  are  less  startling  than  they  were  a  few  years 
ago,  he  still  stimulates  the  minds  of  the  young 
and  the  eager  and  sends  them  bounding  forward. 
"You  should  so  live,"  he  once  said,  "that  when  you 
die,  God  is  in  your  debt!"  He  bids  men  and 
women  strive  to  put  more  into  the  common  pool 
than  they  take  out,  and  he  asserts  with  something 
like  moral  fury  that  any  one  who  is  taking  more 
from  the  common  pool  than  he  puts  in,  is  cheating 
both  God  and  man.  There  are  querulous  persons 
who  say  that  his  work  will  not  live.  Their  fore- 
fathers probably  said  that  Shakespeare's  work 
would  not  live,  that  Cervantes's  work  would  not  live, 
that  Fielding's  work  would  not  live,  that  Dickens's 
work  would  not  live;  and  no  doubt  they  produced 

[238] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

sound  arguments  to  support  their  faith.  Who 
could  have  believed  that  "Don  Quixote,"  a  mere 
skit  on  comtemporary  novelettes,  would  win  uni- 
versal favour,  or  that  "Pickwick  Papers,"  mere 
verbiage  for  a  set  of  pictures  drawn  by  a  popular 
artist,  would  live?  Yet  these  local,  topical,  and 
very  contemporary  things  will  not  perish.  Mr. 
Shaw  has  indisputably  affected  the  thoughts  and 
lives  of  thinking  men  and  women  on  two  continents 
for  thirty  years.  He  is  a  very  daring  fellow  who 
asks  us  to  believe  that  this  brilliant,  original,  force- 
ful mind  will  not  continue  to  affect  the  thoughts 
and  lives  of  thinking  men  and  women  for  genera- 
tions to  come. 


[239] 


H.  G.  WELLS 

I 

There  are  men,  such  as  Dr.  Johnson,  who  are 
mentally  active  and  physically  torpid,  and  there 
are  other  men,  such  as  Mr.  Jack  Johnson,  who  are 
very  alert  physically,  but  not  quite  so  alert  in 
their  minds.  It  seldom  happens  that  a  man  com- 
bines great  physical  energy  with  great  intellectual 
energy.  Such  a  man  is  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  So 
is  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells.  I  imagine  that  Mr.  Wells  is 
more  active,  both  in  body  and  in  mind,  than  Mr. 
Shaw,  despite  the  fact  that  the  latter  is  the  slender 
man  of  the  two  and  that  his  tongue  works  more 
rapidly  in  conjunction  with  his  brain;  for  Mr.  Shaw 
feels  fatigue  sooner  than  Mr.  Wells.  I  doubt 
whether  Mr.  Wells  suffers  from  fatigue  at  all  or  to 
any  serious  extent.  He  takes  few,  if  any,  holi- 
days, works  for  many  hours  every  day,  plays 
games  very  assiduously,  and  is  unhappy  if  he  has 
not  got  some  work  on  hand.  He  begins  to  write 
a   new   book   immediately   he   has   completed   its 

[240] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY    ELDERS 

precedessor,  having  no  belief,  seemingly,  in  fallow 
time.     When  he  is  not  working  or  playing,  he  is 
talking.     His  conversation  has  a  curious  resem- 
blance in  its  shape,  if  I  may  use  that  word,  to  the 
style  of  his  writing.     One  listens  for  the  suspended 
sentence,  for  the  dots  with  which,  in  his  prose,  he 
breaks  a  thought  so  that  the  reader  may  himself 
complete  it.     Mr.  Shaw  once  told  me  that  he  could 
not  work  at  creative  writing  for  more  than  two 
hours  every  day,  and  I  suspect  that  he  suffers  more 
from  physical  fatigue  than  he  will  admit.     Mr. 
Wells  works  for  considerably  more  than  two  hours 
every  day  (and  sometimes  during  the  night)  though 
I  do  not  suppose  he  works  for  two  consecutive 
hours  at  any  time.     If  you  are  a  guest  in  his 
house,  you  will  see  him  engaged  in  some  game, 
tennis  or  hockey  or  that  wild  game  of  his  own  in- 
vention,  "barn-ball,"   or  perhaps  playing  demon 
patience;  and  when  you  are  inclined  to  imagine 
that  he  is  settling  down  to  a  long  day  of  games, 
you  discover  that  he  is  no  longer  with  the  players, 
but  back  in  his  study  working  on  a  manuscript. 

One  expects  a  certain  amount  of  sluggishness 
in  every  man,  and  probably  there  are  days  when 
Mr.  Wells's  mind  and  body  go  to  sleep  or  lie  about 

[241] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

supine,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  any  one  has  ever 
seen  him  asleep  or  supine.     His  mind  is  so  active 
that   one   can   almost   see   ideas   leaping   off   his 
tongue  as  he  talks,  and  he  has  a  very  remarkable 
capacity  for  engaging  the  attention  of  his  auditors 
without  making  any  perceptible  effort  to  do  so. 
His  conversation,  unlike  that  of  Mr.  Yeats  or  Mr. 
George  Moore,   is   unrehearsed  conversation.     It 
has  not  the  swift  brilliance  of  Mr.  Shaw's  talk, 
and  it  goes  to  its  point  rather  jerkily,  but  it  reaches 
its    destination.     He   is   not   so   easily   distracted 
from  his  course  as  Mr.  Gilbert  Chesterton  is,  or 
perhaps  I  ought  to  say  that  he  does  not  take  so  long 
to  get  to  his  destination.     Mr.  Chesterton  seems  to 
me  to  be  falling  with  great  amiability  on  his  sub- 
ject, whereas  Mr.  Wells  is  eagerly  struggling  up 
to  it.     Mr.  Chesterton  defers  to  others  with  great 
courtesy,  but  his  mind,  I  imagine,  is  already  made 
up.     He  listens  to  a  controversialist,  not  because 
he  thinks  he  is  likely  to  be  converted  to  an  oppo- 
site opinion — he  is  fairly  certain  that  he  will  not 
be  converted — but  because  he  has  excellent  man- 
ners  and   an   exceptionally  kindly   character.     It 
is  hard  to  believe  that  any  man  of  merit  is  with- 
out some  malice  in  his  nature,  some  element  of 

[242] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

cattishness,  but  if  there  is  a  man  of  merit  without 
these  things  then  that  man  is  Mr.  Chesterton.  If 
he  could  bring  himself  to  throttle  the  creature  he 
most  detests,  the  international  financier,  the  man 
without  a  country,  he  would,  I  am  sure,  do  so  en- 
tirely without  prejudice.  Mr.  Wells  listens,  not 
out  of  politeness,  but  in  the  hope  that  he  will  re- 
ceive information,  and  this  hope  of  his  causes  him 
to  listen  very  patiently  even  to  bad  or  inexpert 
talkers.  He  has  the  additional  merit,  rare  among 
men  of  genius,  of  being  an  uncommonly  good  host, 
very  punctilious  about  the  comfort  and  pleasure 
of  his  guests.  He  is  a  sociable  man,  mingling 
easily  with  very  various  people,  gregarious  where 
Mr.  Yeats  and  Mr.  Shaw  are  solitary,  and  he  is 
instinctively  friendly.  His  hospitality  is  lavish 
and  with  something  of  the  Dickensian  tradition  in 
it.  He  has  none  of  the  chilly  aloofness  of  Mr. 
Yeats  nor  of  the  shy  constraint  of  Mr.  Shaw  nor 
of  the  nervous  coldness  of  Mr.  Galsworthy.  Were 
it  not  for  a  degree  of  cruelty  in  his  nature,  I  should 
say  that  Mr.  Chesterton  and  he  were  as  near  to 
each  other  in  temperament  as  any  two  men  of 
merit  can  be.  It  is  this  strain  of  cruelty  in  him 
which  makes  him  so  attractive  when  he  loses  his 

[243] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

temper,  for  he  seems  only  to  be  witty  when  he  is 
about  to  hit  some  one  very  severely  on  the  head. 
I  do  not  know  any  man  who  can  lose  his  temper 
in  print  with  so  much  effect  and  so  entertainingly 
as  Mr.  Wells  can  lose  his.  He  is  hardly  a  witty 
man,  as  Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Yeats  and  even  Mr. 
Gilbert  Chesterton  are  witty  men,  but  he  has  a 
neat,  malicious  humour  which  delights  him  as  much 
as  it  delights  his  friends,  and  is  most  often  dis- 
played when  he  is  attacking  some  one. 

II 

If  a  writer  wished  to  create  a  character  who 
would  most  aptly  personify  the  past  thirty  years 
of  English  or  of  world  history,  he  would  have  to 
create  a  character  very  like  Mr.  Wells:  a  question- 
ing, variable,  demanding  person,  with  some  im- 
patience and  testiness  of  temper,  with,  at  times,  a 
fantastic  and  wayward  manner,  but  always  super- 
imposed on  these  superficialities,  an  eager  and  un- 
thwartable  desire  for  a  true  belief.  Mr.  Chester- 
ton said  of  him  once  that  "you  lie  awake  at  night 
and  hear  him  grow,"  and  fundamentally  that  is 
true,  in  spite  of  the  temptation  one  has  at  times  to 

[244] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

believe  that  one  lies  awake  at  night  and  merely 
hears  him  changing  his  mind.  One  could,  were 
one  silly  enough  to  do  so,  construct  a  plausible 
indictment  of  Mr.  Wells  of  hurriedly  accepting  a 
belief  and  as  hurriedly  rejecting  it;  but  to  do  so 
would  be  to  charge  oneself  with  a  superficial  mind. 
Mr.  Wells,  in  his  eagerness  to  discover  a  reason- 
able and  sane  society  in  which  the  spirit  of  man 
may  grow  and  develop  and  achieve,  has  sometimes 
accepted  a  theory  too  swiftly,  but  his  scientific 
mind  has  come,  sooner  or  later,  to  the  rescue  of 
his  eager  heart  and  has  caused  him  to  reject  pro- 
posals which  he  had  previously  found  acceptable. 
In  "First  and  Last  Things"  he  decides  against 
the  community  of  austere  aristocrats  who  won  his 
advocacy  in  "A  Modern  Utopia."  The  self -dis- 
regard of  the  Samurai  of  Japan  had  pleased  him 
as  it  must  please  all  who  contemplate  it,  and  he 
imagined  a  state  in  which  the  best  men  would  gov- 
ern "the  average,  sensual  men,"  formulating  their 
laws  and  doctrines  from  the  sanctuary  of  a  sort 
of  monastic  establishment  in  which  their  fleshly 
desires  would  be  chastened  and  perhaps  elimi- 
nated. Mr.  Wells,  having  felt  the  allure  of  a  se- 
lect company  of  selfless  aristocrats,  devoting  them- 

[245] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

selves  to  the  good  government  of  less  gifted  men, 
soon  discovered  that  good  government  cannot  be 
administered  by  men  who  are  remote  from  the 
emotions  and  desires  of  the  governed  and  so,  with 
characteristic  courage,  he  abandoned  his  Samurai 
and  boldly  marched  into  the  company  of  the  crowd. 
Can  any  one  find  ground  for  sneering  in  such  be- 
haviour as  that?  Are  not  those  who  try  to  find 
solutions  to  puzzles  more  likely  to  be  successful 
in  their  efforts  because  Mr.  Wells  has  offered  one 
solution  and  then,  finding  it  useless,  repudiated  it 
and  tried  another? 

There  was  a  time  when  he  saw  hope  for  the 
world  in  the  establishment  of  a  universal  language, 
but  I  doubt  whether  he  holds  to  that  hope  now. 
A  common  speech  does  not  keep  men  at  peace  any 
more  than  a  common  purpose  does,  and,  in  any 
event,  man's  incorrigible  habit  of  localizing  uni- 
versal things  until  they  cease  to  be  universal  tends 
in  time  to  make  a  common  speech  an  impossible 
possession.  The  Catholic  Church  has  a  common 
speech  in  the  Latin  tongue,  but  an  Italian  priest 
can  preach  to  an  English  priest  in  that  language 
and  remain  incomprehensible.  The  British  and 
the  American  people  have  a  common  speech,  but 

[246] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

it  has  become  so  permeated  with  local  words  that 
very  often  the  two  races  are  unintelligible  to  each 
other,  apart  altogether  from  the  difficulty  of  accent. 
Mr.  Wells  has  plunged  into  a  few  bog-holes  of 
that  sort,  but  he  has  always  extricated  himself  from 
them,  and  less  and  less,  as  he  develops,  does  he  in- 
sist upon  uniformity  and  machinery,  and  more 
and  more  does  he  insist  on  diversity  and  spirit. 
"Let  us  be  Catholics  in  this  great  matter,"  Mr. 
Birrell  writes  on  Browning's  poetry,  "and  burn 
our  candles  at  many  shrines.  In  the  pleasant 
realms  of  poesy,  no  liveries  are  worn,  no  paths 
prescribed;  you  may  wander  where  you  will,  stop 
where  you  like,  and  worship  whom  you  love. 
Nothing  is  demanded  of  you,  save  this,  that  in  all 
your  wanderings  and  worships,  you  keep  two  ob- 
jects steadily  in  view — two,  and  two  only — truth 
and  beauty."  It  may  fairly  be  said  of  Mr.  Wells 
that  in  all  his  "wanderings  and  worships"  he  has 
tried  to  do  so. 

Ill 

There  is  a  photograph  of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw 
and   Mr.   H.   G.   Wells,   taken   by   an   American 

[247] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

photographer,  Mr.  Alvin  Langdon  Coburn,  in 
which  the  two  men  are  shown  sitting  side  by  side. 
It  is  the  most  illuminating  interpretation  of  their 
characters  that  I  have  ever  seen.  Mr.  Shaw,  with 
something  of  the  look  of  a  prophet,  sits  beside 
Mr.  Wells  who  has  a  smile  of  disbelief  on  his 
face;  Mr.  Shaw  shows  a  countenance  full  of  faith, 
while  Mr.  Wells  shows  one  full  of  inquiry.  Mr. 
Shaw  accepts  the  pose  quite  naturally,  but  Mr. 
Wells  is  deprecating.  I  felt  when  I  saw  that 
photograph  in  Mr.  Wells's  study  that  while  Mr. 
Shaw  accepted  the  status  of  a  great  man  as  his 
right,  Mr.  Wells  felt  uncomfortable  about  the  pose, 
not  because  he  doubts  his  right  to  be  regarded  as 
a  great  man,  but  because  he  is  reluctant  to  live 
on  pedestals.  "I'm  human  just  as  much  as  you 
are,"  he  seems  to  be  saying  to  the  photographer, 
and  the  smile  of  deprecation  on  his  face  means, 
if  it  means  anything,  that  while  Mr.  Shaw  accepts 
the  great  man's  altitude  without  a  qualm,  Mr. 
Wells  feels  that  the  whole  thing  is  humbug. 
"Shaw  is  taken  in  by  this  Great  Man  business," 
the  Wells  of  the  photograph  says  as  plainly  as  if 
the  picture  were  to  take  life  and  utter  words,  "but 
don't  you  imagine  I'm  deluded  by  it!   .  .  ." 

[248] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY    ELDERS 

These  two  men,  one  Irish,  one  English,  George 
Bernard  Shaw  and  Herbert  George  Wells,  between 
them  have  done  more  to  influence  the  minds  of 
the  young  men  of  my  generation  than  any  other 
two  men  of  their  time.     Their   attitude   towards 
life  may,  perhaps,  be  summarized  in  an  account 
of  the  way  in  which  they  interpret  the  doctrine 
of  Evolution.     Mr.   Shaw  believes  that  the  Life 
Force,  which  ordinary  men  call  God,  is  an  Im 
perfect    Thing    seeking    to    make    Itself    Perfect 
How,  when  you  contemplate  the  miseries  and  in 
equalities  and  cruelties  of  existence,  can  you  be 
lieve  in  an  All- Powerful  God?  he  says.     You  mus 
believe  that  these  horrible  things  happen  because 
God  cannot  prevent  them  from  happening.     The 
blind-alley  argument  that  the  Almighty  inflicts  pain 
upon  us  for  our  good  is  insupportable  when  one 
considers  that  an  earthly  father  would  not  subject 
his  child  to  convulsions  or  cause  a  cancer  to  con- 
sume its  life  or  endow  it  with  a  cruel  disposition  if 
such  things  were  within  his  powers  of  disposal.     If, 
one  reasonably   argues,   an   earthly  father  is   in- 
capable of  such  acts,  how  less  likely  is  God  to 
be  capable  of  them  if  He  be  Ail-Powerful  and  All- 
Good?     Since  these  inexplicable  cruelties  and  hor- 

[249] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

rors  occur  and  recur,  surely,  argues  Mr.  Shaw,  it 
is  only  common  sense  to  assume  that  they  do  so  in 
spite  of  God's  good  will  towards  man.  Starting 
from  this  premise,  he  goes  on  to  argue  that  God 
seeks  to  obtain  that  control  over  material  things 
which  He  has  not  yet  succeeded  in  obtaining.  He 
imagines  God  engaged  in  a  magnificent  research, 
the  discovery  of  a  harmonious  universe,  much  in 
the  way  in  which  one  imagines  a  biologist  in  his 
laboratory  seeking  for  a  preventative  of  disease. 
The  Life  Force  uses  such  instruments  for  its  pur- 
pose as  are  to  be  found  lying  at  hand.  When  these 
prove  abortive  or  useless  or  insufficient,  the  Life 
Force  invents  a  new  instrument  which  it  uses  until 
that  instrument,  too,  is  found  to  be  useless  or  in- 
adequate and  is  scrapped  in  favour  of  a  new  instru- 
ment. Like  all  creators,  God  must  express  Him- 
self through  His  creatures,  and  the  whole  of  Time 
has  been  spent  so  far  in  finding  a  suitable  means 
of  expression.  In  the  beginning,  God  used  mam- 
moth beasts,  but  finding  them  unsuitable  for  His 
purpose,  He  scrapped  them  and  invented  other 
creatures  until  at  last  He  achieved  His  best  instru- 
ment, Man.  God's  latest  and  finest  creature  differs 
from  all  His  other  creatures  in  this  respect  that  he 

[250] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

is  conscious  of  God's  purpose  and  can  help  it  for- 
ward or  hold  it  back.  God  concealed  His  inten- 
tion from  all  the  instruments  that  preceded  the  ad- 
vent of  Man,  but,  in  the  development  of  His  Be- 
ing, He  found  that  greater  advantage  would  ac- 
crue to  Him  if  He  made  His  instrument  aware  of 
its  purpose.  So  we  get  the  reason  of  Man.  God, 
before  the  creation  of  Man,  had  depended  upon 
Himself.  After  the  creation  of  Man,  he  depended 
partly  upon  Himself,  partly  upon  His  creature. 
Man,  in  short,  ivas  the  first  of  God's  instruments 
to  have  the  power  to  help  God  to  realize  Him- 
self. To  Mr.  Shaw,  it  is  an  obscuring  of  God's 
purpose  for  Man  continually  to  pray,  "God  help 
me!"  when  it  is  part  of  his  purpose  and  duty  to 
affirm,  "I  will  help  God!"  I  have  already  quoted 
his  dictum  that  we  should  so  live  that  when  we 
die,  God  is  in  our  debt. 

It  is  obvious,  from  this  belief,  that  Mr.  Shaw 
does  not  believe  in  the  inevitable  march  of  man- 
kind from  bad  to  good  and  from  good  to  better. 
We  may  be  marching  towards  Utopia  or  the  New 
Jerusalem,  or  we  may  be  marching  back  to  Chaos. 
Man,  having  the  choice  between  helping  God  and 
thwarting  Him,  may  so  vex  the  Deity  that  He  will 

[251] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

become  impatient  with  him  and  throw  this  instru- 
ment away  as  he  has  thrown  away  other  useless 
instruments,  and  seek  for  a  better  one.  God 
scrapped  the  mammoth  beasts  because  they  were 
not  adequate  for  the  execution  of  His  design;  He 
may  scrap  Man  for  the  same  reason  or  because 
Man,  while  adequate,  wilfully  refuses  to  help. 
This  theory  is  expressed  continually  in  Mr.  Shaw's 
plays  and  prefaces,  for  example,  in  a  speech  by 
Caesar  in  "Caesar  and  Cleopatra,"  where  the  Em- 
peror gives  expression  to  a  violent  antipathy  to 
war.  War,  in  Mr.  Shaw's  mind,  is  a  plain  per- 
version of  God's  purpose,  and  he  would  probably 
declare  that  Man,  in  the  Great  War  whose  end 
may  yet  be  a  bloody  battle  between  the  Allies, 
almost  reached  the  end  of  God's  patience.  In  five 
years,  the  British  alone  had  eight  hundred  thou- 
sand of  her  most  valuable  men  killed.  France 
lost  double  that  number  killed.  Germany  lost 
more  even  than  France  killed.  All  the  potential- 
ities for  good,  all  the  fervour  and  chivalry  and 
idealism  and  courage  that  was  in  those  men,  their 
ability  to  help  God  to  achieve  perfection,  has 
vanished  utterly  from  the  world;  and  there  is 
nothing  left  of  it.     Most  of  them  died  without 

[252] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

progeny,  and  so  there  is  not  even  the  hope  that 
their  spirit  has  passed  on  to  their  children  and 
that,  at  the  worst,  God's  purpose  has  only  been 
suspended  for  a  generation.  They  have  gone,  ir- 
retrievably gone.  Another  such  war  and  Western 
civilization  must  perish,  if,  indeed,  it  has  not 
already  begun  to  decay.  In  other  words,  God, 
sickened  by  Man's  perversity  and  wilful  obstruc- 
tion, will  have  scrapped  him.  .  .  . 

That  is  the  Shavian  doctrine  of  the  Life  Force, 
put  plainly  and  simply. 

Mr.  Wells  differs  very  sharply  from  Mr.  Shaw 
in  his  doctrine.  Mr.  Shaw  believes  that  the  pro- 
gress from  bad  to  good  is  not  inevitable:  Mr. 
Wells  believes  that  it  is,  and  he  produces  the  rec- 
ords of  history  to  support  his  belief.  Mankind, 
at  this  moment,  he  will  admit,  is  in  a  very  bloody 
mess,  but  that  mess  is  not  so  frightful  as,  say,  the 
mess  after  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  We,  who  con- 
template the  organized  Murder  of  Youth  which  be- 
gan in  August,  1914,  may  fairly  feel  that  mankind 
has  sunk  very  low  in  barbarism,  but  when  we  sur- 
vey the  whole  range  of  humanity  so  far  as  it  has 
been  recorded,  the  depths  of  1914,  deep  though 
they  are,  appear  to  be  slightly  less  dreadful  than 

[253] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  depths  of  other  days.  There  is  a  greater  revolt 
from  organized  Murder  to-day  than  there  was 
after  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  There  are  fewer  peo- 
ple to-day  who  prate  about  the  glories  of  war 
than  there  were  then.  (Oddly  enough,  or  per- 
haps naturally  enough,  most  of  the  people  who 
still  think  of  war  as  a  jolly  adventure  live  in  Amer- 
ica.) We  are  a  little  nearer  to  a  realization  of 
the  commandment,  "Thou  Shalt  Not  Kill"  than  we 
were  before  1914.  We  are  learning  that  there  are 
no  qualifications  or  exceptions  to  that  command- 
ment. It  does  not  say,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill — ex- 
cept in  defence  of  small  nationalities!"  It  does 
not  say,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill — except  for  the  pur- 
pose of  self-determination!"  It  does  not  say, 
"Thou  shalt  not  kill — except  for  the  establishment 
of  a  Republic  in  Ireland!"  It  does  not  say,  "Thou 
shalt  not  kill — except  for  the  purpose  of  preserving 
the  Empire!"  Tersely  and  without  modification, 
it  states  that  "Thou  Shalt  Not  Kill"  in  any  circum- 
stances whatever. 

Here  is  a  dilemma  from  which  the  Christian  can- 
not easily  escape,  and  the  difficulty  of  doing  so, 
apart  from  all  ordinary  considerations  of  decency, 
is  bringing  man  sharply  face  to  face  with  the  fun- 

[254] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

damentals  of  human  existence.  In  spite  of  much 
occasion  for  pessimism  to-day,  there  is  occasion 
for  greater  optimism  than  man  ever  before  has  had. 
There  is  a  social  consciousness  at  work  in  our 
minds  and  hearts  that  will  yet  deliver  us  from  the 
wicked  man.  How  few  are  the  years  since  the 
days  when  men  in  one  part  of  England  made  war 
on  men  in  another  part!  How  unthinkable  it  is 
that  men  in  Lancaster  should  make  war  to-day  in 
Yorkshire!  True,  it  is  less  than  a  century  since 
men  in  the  Northern  States  of  America  made  war 
on  men  in  the  Southern  States.  True,  it  is  less 
than  ten  years  since  men  in  Ulster  prepared  them- 
selves to  make  war  on  men  in  the  rest  of  Ireland. 
True,  at  this  moment,  Russian  fights  Russian,  and 
Sinn  Feiner  slays  Orangeman,  and  Orangeman 
slays  Sinn  Feiner.  True,  that  white  man  burns 
black  man,  that  Christian  persecutes  Jew,  true  all 
this  and  worse,  yet  it  remains  true  that  when  the 
records  of  time  are  made  up  and  just  balances  are 
drawn  in  the  accounts  of  Mankind,  there  is  seen 
to  be  a  greater  perception  of  common  purpose  to- 
day than  there  was  a  century  ago. 

His  scientific  and  historic  sense  keeps  Mr.  Wells 
secure  in  his  belief  that  Man,  although  he  may 

[255] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

hinder  the  development  of  God's  purpose,  cannot 
thwart  it.  Mr.  Shaw  would  perhaps  agree  with 
Mr.  Wells  in  his  belief  that  God's  Will  must  ulti- 
mately find  adequate  expression,  but  he  would  in- 
sist that  that  expression  may  be  through  another 
instrument  than  man.  Mr.  Wells,  however,  would 
not  yield  to  him  on  this  point;  he  would  insist  that 
God's  Will  must  ultimately  find  adequate  expres- 
sion through  man.  Man  may,  indeed  be  obliter- 
ated by  plague  and  pestilence  or  cosmic  disaster, 
but,  failing  those,  man  must  achieve  God's  pur- 
pose. 

IV 

When  one  brings  the  Wellsian  doctrine  down  to 
the  details  of  life,  one  discovers  what  I  may  call 
a  local  pessimism  in  it.  The  anger  which  breaks 
out  of  his  work  is  directed  against  the  incom- 
petence and  stupidity  of  man  which  hold  him  back 
from  the  desirable  country  towards  which  he  is 
marching.  The  greatest  optimists — the  men  who 
are  convinced  that  man's  end  is  good  and  seemly — 
are  almost  always  the  most  bitter  pessimists  when 
they  are  considering  contemporary  affairs.     The 

[256] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

visionary  loves  mankind  in  the  abstract  so  much 
that  when  he  contemplates  mankind  in  the  concrete 
he  loses  his  temper.  The  Utopian,  full  of  his 
dream  of  a  decent  and  free  civilization  in  which 
every  man  may  move  easily  to  his  proper  station, 
feels  a  dreadful  depression  when  he  looks  upon 
society  as  it  exists  here  and  now;  and  there  are 
times  when,  in  spite  of  his  sure  and  certain  hope 
that  life  will  ultimately  find  its  level,  he  feels  that 
man,  that  perverse,  wayward,  thwarting  creature, 
will  never  fulfil  the  promise  of  his  potentialities 
because  he  is  too  closely  concerned  with  some  tiny, 
personal  vanity,  because  he  allows  wickedness  and 
stupidity  to  influence  him  to  a  greater  degree  than 
goodness  and  fine  thought.  Who,  thinking  over 
the  Big  Four  in  Paris,  and  remembering  that  mil- 
lions of  young  men  of  all  nations  died  so  that  the 
Big  Four  might  meet  and  make  a  more  enduring 
peace  than  this  world  has  yet  known,  can  feel  any- 
thing but  anger  and  humiliation  at  what  they  did? 
Clemenceau,  the  "Tiger"  who,  having  tasted  blood, 
seemed  eager  to  taste  more;  Lloyd  George,  who 
never  remembers  a  friend  or  forgets  an  enemy; 
Orlando,  shamelessly  extending  his  itching  palm; 
and  Wilson,  the  man  who  went  to  Europe  to  ask 

[257] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

for  the  moon  and  returned  to  America,  having  ac- 
cepted a  match  .  .  .  can  any  of  us,  contempla- 
ting those  four  men,  given  by  God  the  greatest  op- 
portunity that  has  ever  been  offered  to  men,  that 
may  ever  be  offered  to  men,  help  feeling  that  this 
world  is  dead  and  damned  and  that  the  sooner  a 
disgusted  God  smashes  it  to  pieces,  the  better  will 
be  the  universe?  Mr.  Wells  cannot  escape,  any 
more  than  the  rest  of  us,  this  tendency  to  despair 
of  human  effort,  and  here  and  there  in  his  books 
his  local  pessimism  is  expressed;  but  his  universal 
optimism  remains  unimpaired,  and  one  comes 
away  from  his  writings  in  the  knowledge  that  he 
believes  that  man  sooner  or  later  will  achieve  a 
high  destiny.  He  whips  the  stupid  and  the  selfish 
and  the  idle,  but  he  will  not  permit  them  to  per- 
suade him  from  his  belief  that  even  out  of  these 
elements,  a  finer  Man  will  yet  be  made. 


There  is  a  cartoon  by  Mr.  Max  Beerbohm  in 
which  he  shows  himself  being  conducted  through  a 
gallery  where  Mr.  Wells,  Mr.  Shaw,  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy,   Mr.    Bennett    and   many   other   eminent 

[258] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

writers  are  standing  on  inverted  tubs,  haranguing 
the  universe.  Having  listened  to  the  preachers 
and  propagandists,  Mr.  Beerbohm  turns  to  his 
guide  and  says,  "But  where  are  the  artists?"  only 
to  be  informed  that  "These  are  the  artists!"  It 
has  been  said  that  Mr.  Shaw  would  rather  be  known 
as  a  great  political  economist  than  as  a  great  dram- 
atist, that  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  would  rather  be 
known  as  an  eminent  business  man  than  as  an  em- 
inent novelist,  that  Mr.  Galsworthy  would  prefer  to 
be  a  reformer  than  a  man  of  letters,  and  that  Mr. 
Wells  seeks  fame  as  a  sociologist  and  not  as  an 
artist.  There  is  enough  truth  in  this  statement  to 
give  pause  to  those  about  whom  it  is  made,  but  not 
sufficient  to  frighten  us  who  admire  them.  Mr. 
Wells,  for  example,  can  no  more  elude  artistry  than 
he  can  refrain  from  thinking.  He  is  extraordina- 
rily indifferent  to  literary  style,  seems  almost  to  de- 
light in  making  a  clumsy  sentence  rather  than  a 
shapely  one,  and,  so  far  as  one  can  discover,  does 
not  spend  a  single  second  on  "finding  the  right 
word."  The  idea  is  his  chief  concern,  and  he  cares 
very  little  for  the  way  in  which  it  is  expressed. 
Nevertheless,  he  remains  an  artist,  with  a  gift  for 
apt    expressions    and    a    far    greater    gift    for 

[259] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY    ELDERS 

selection.  In  one  of  his  books,  he  describes  the 
prostitute  as  "that  painted  disaster  of  the  street." 
In  "First  and  Last  Things,"  in  describing  the  ina- 
bility of  the  intellect  to  free  itself  from  bias,  he 
says,  "the  forceps  of  the  mind  is  a  clumsy  instru- 
ment and  crushes  the  truth  a  little  in  seizing  it." 
At  the  end  of  "Tono-Bungay"  there  is  an  account  of 
a  trip  down  the  Thames  which  is  among  the  great 
pieces  of  prose  writing.  In  "The  Undying  Fire," 
he  gives  an  account  of  the  purposeless  cruelty  of 
Nature  and  an  account  of  the  state  of  mind  of  a 
young  German  who  goes  from  his  remote  village  to 
join  the  Army  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  full  of 
patriotic  ardour,  offering  for  this  service  and  for 
that  until  at  last  he  becomes  a  member  of  the  crew 
of  a  submarine  and  his  patriotism  suffers  a  sea- 
change  and  becomes  the  desperate  courage  of  a 
rat  in  a  trap  .  .  .  and  these  two  accounts  are  so 
vivid  that  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  rise  from 
them  unaware  that  they  have  been  written  by  a  man 
of  genius,  possessed  of  artistry. 

He  is  probably  the  most  prolific  writer  of  his 
quality  in  the  world,  and  if  I  had  exact  knowledge 
of  the  world's  greatest  authors,  I  should  probably 

[260] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

say  that  he  is  the  most  varied  of  them.  Consider 
how  very  dissimilar  his  books  are  in  range  and 
interest.  Consider  that  the  man  who  wrote  "The 
Time  Machine,"  wrote  also  "The  History  of  Mr. 
Polly"  and  the  "The  Undying  Fire."  How  many 
writers  have  shown  such  variety  as  has  been  shown 
by  the  author  of  "The  War  in  the  Air,"  "Kipps" 
(that  beautiful  and  tender  book),  "Tono-Bungay" 
and  "The  Soul  of  a  Bishop."  At  one  moment, 
Mr.  Wells  is  writing  "Bealby"  and  at  the  next,  he 
is  writing  "God,  the  Invisible  King."  He  turns 
from  "The  Wonderful  Visit"  to  "The  Outline  His- 
tory of  the  World,"  and  writes  "The  Future  in 
America"  in  the  trail  of  "Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham." 
("The  Future  in  America"  is  perhaps  the  best 
book  of  its  kind  that  has  ever  been  written  on  the 
problems  that  lie  before  the  American  people.) 
Queen  Victoria,  having  been  enchanted  by  "Alice 
in  Wonderland,"  sent  to  a  book-seller  for  the  re- 
mainder of  "Lewis  Carroll's"  writings,  and  was 
considerably  disconcerted  when  she  received 
"Plane  Trigonometry"  and  "Curiosa  Mathemat- 
ica"  by  the  Reverend  Charles  Lutwidge  Dodgson. 
What  that  excellent  old  lady  would  have  thought, 

[261] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

if  having  read  and  liked  "The  Sea  Lady,"  she  had 
been  supplied  with  "Mankind  in  the  Making"  and 
"The  Island  of  Dr.  Moreau"  and  "Joan  and  Peter" 
by  the  same  author,  I  cannot  imagine.  Mr.  Wells 
faces  life  very  fairly  and  squarely,  regarding  it 
from  all  angles  of  vision.  There  is  only  one 
Truth,  but  it  may  be  approached  by  many  different 
paths;  and  Mr.  Wells  has  attempted  most  of  them. 
It  may  seem  to  some  of  his  readers  at  times  that 
he  is  running  away  from  things  towards  which  he 
formerly  ran,  but  it  is  more  likely  that  he  is  merely 
trying  another  way  of  getting  to  the  same  point. 

VI 

One  remembers  men  by  odd  things.  I  remem- 
ber Mr.  Yeats  chiefly  as  a  dark  image,  obscurely 
seen,  and  Mr.  Shaw  as  a  shy,  erect  man  with  fine, 
shapely  hands,  who  talks  emphatically  because 
otherwise  he  would  not  be  talking  at  all.  I  remem- 
ber Mr.  Galsworthy  as  one  who  is  biting  his  lips 
or  clenching  his  teeth  lest  he  should  say  too  much, 
and  Mr.  George  Moore  as  one  who  is  consumed 
with  the  fear  that  he  will  not  say  enough.  Mr. 
Wells  comes  into  my  mind  as  an  eager,  friendly 

[262] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

man,  whose  speech,  thinly  uttered,  suggests  contin- 
ual testing.  But  mostly  I  remember  his  fine  eyes 
because  it  is  in  them  that  most  of  his  strength  is 
stored. 


[263] 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 


I  HAVE  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Yeats  for  a 
longer  time  than  I  have  with  any  other  man  named 
in  this  book,  but  I  seem  to  myself  to  know  very  little 
about  him,  for  he  is  extraordinarily  aloof  from  life. 
His  aloofness  is  different  from  that  of  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy who  is  perturbed  about  mankind.  Mr. 
Yeats  is  totally  unconcerned  about  problems  of 
any  sort.  He  is  more  interested  in  the  things  men 
do  than  in  men  themselves.  He  prefers  the  symbol 
to  the  thing  symbolized.  The  harshest  condem- 
nation I  ever  heard  him  utter  was  delivered  on 
"A.  E."  of  whom  he  said  that  he  had  ceased  to  be 
a  poet  in  order  to  become  a  philanthropist!  I  met 
him  last  in  Chicago,  and  I  felt  when  we  parted  that 
I  knew  no  more  of  him  then  than  I  knew  when  I 
first  met  him  ten  years  earlier.  Our  meeting  fol- 
lowed on  the  fact  that  I  had  sent  a  one-act  play, 
entitled  "The  Magnanimous  Lover,"  to  him.  It 
seems  to  me  now  to  be  a  crudely-contrived,  ill-writ- 

[264] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

ten  and  violent  piece,  but  when  I  sent  it  to  Mr. 
Yeats  I  thought  it  was  a  remarkable  work.  It  was 
performed  after  the  production  of  Stanley  Hough- 
ton's "Hindle  Wakes"  and  Mr.  Galsworthy's  "The 
Eldest  Son,"  which  have  similar  themes,  but  was 
written  several  years  before  they  were  performed. 
One  evening,  a  few  weeks  after  I  had  sent  the  manu- 
script of  "The  Magnanimous  Lover"  to  him,  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Mr.  Yeats,  written  in  that 
queer,  illegible,  thick  style  which  is  so  difficult  to 
read.  Many  of  the  words  were  incomplete:  all  of 
them  were  badly-formed.  The  contrast  between 
the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Yeats  is  re- 
markable. Mr.  Shaw's  is  very  clear  and  neat  and 
most  beautifully-shaped,  as  delicate  as  a  spider's 
web,  but  Mr.  Yeats's  writing  is  obscure,  untidy, 
sprawling  and  hard  to  decipher,  looking  as  if  it 
had  been  done  with  a  blunt  pen.  Mr.  Wells  writes 
in  a  small,  clean,  but  not  very  clear  hand,  a  decep- 
tive fist,  for  it  seems  easier  to  read  than  it  is. 
There  is  some  oddness  in  the  fact  that  the  hand- 
writing of  the  poet  should  be  so  coarse  and  un- 
gainly, while  the  handwriting  of  the  dramatist,  with 
so  little  of  poetic  emotion  in  him,  is  fine  and 
shapely.     The  letter  from  Mr.  Yeats  was  to  say 

[265] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

that  he  liked  my  play,  but  could  not  make  a  definite 
decision  about  it  until  he  had  consulted  his  co-di- 
rector at  the  Abbey  Theatre,  Lady  Gregory.  It 
had  the  formal,  distant  tone  which  is  characteristic 
of  his  speech  and  writing,  but  it  had  a  postscript 
which  gave  me  great  pleasure.  In  this  postscript, 
he  said  that  my  play  was  the  only  example  of  "way- 
ward realism"  that  he  had  ever  read.  I  did  not 
quite  understand  what  he  meant  by  the  phrase,  but 
it  was  a  compliment  from  a  distinguished  man  and 
compliments  from  distinguished  men  had  never 
come  my  way  before.  I  have  had  many  praising 
letters  from  him  since  then  about  my  work,  but 
none  that  ever  raised  me  to  such  a  state  of  dizzy  de- 
light as  that  first  letter  did.  He  told  me,  in  an- 
other postscript,  that  he  found  in  my  "dialogue  a 
quality  of  temperament,  as  distinguished  from  the 
usual  impersonal  logic.  You  have  more  than  con- 
struction, and  it  is  growing  rare  to  have  more." 
He  thought  highly  of  "John  Ferguson" — so  did 
Mr.  Shaw  and  "A.  E." — and  when  I  was  attacked 
in  Dublin  because  of  this  play,  I  comforted  myself 
with  the  thought  that  my  betters  liked  what  was 
denounced  by  my  inferiors.     Mr.  Yeats  wrote  to 

[266] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

me  that  "John  Ferguson"  was  "a  fragment  of  life, 
fully  expounded  and  without  conventionality  or 
confusion.  I  think  it  is  the  best  play  you  have 
done,  though  not  likely  to  be  the  most  popular." 
His  criticism  is  especially  valuable  when  it  is  ad- 
verse. I  had  written  a  play  called  "Mrs.  Martin's 
Man"  which  I  now  know  to  have  been  a  dreadful 
mess  of  motives.  I  sent  it  to  Mr.  Yeats  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  permit  it  to  be  done  at  the 
Abbey.  He  wrote  lengthily  to  me  about  it,  and 
when  I  had  read  his  letter  I  put  my  play  in  the 
fire,  though  afterwards  I  used  the  theme,  purged 
of  the  faults  he  had  found  in  it,  for  a  novel  with 
the  same  title.     "I  believe,"  he  wrote, 

"I  believe  that  the  play  is  an  error.  I  am  very  sorry 
indeed  to  say  this,  for  I  know  what  a  blow  it  is  to  any 
dramatist  to  be  told  that  about  work  which  must  have 
taken  many  weeks.  Shaw  has  driven  you  off  your 
balance,  and  instead  of  giving  a  vision  of  life,  which  is 
your  gift  and  a  most  remarkable  gift  to  have,  you  have 
begun  to  be  topical,  to  play  with  ideas,  to  construct  out- 
side of  life.  Shaw  has  a  very  unique  mind,  a  mind  that 
is  a  part  of  a  logical  process  going  on  all  over  Europe 
but  which  has  found  in  him  alone  its  efficient  expression 
in  English.  He  has  no  vision  of  life.  He  is  a  figure  of 
international  argument.     There  is  an  old  saying,     "No 

[267] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

angel  can  carry  two  messages.     Yjdu  have  the  greater 
gift  of  seeing  life  itself.  ..." 

I  print  that  extract  from  his  letter,  partly  as 
a  corrective  to  my  own  pride,  but  chiefly  because 
of  its  commentary  on  Mr.  Shaw.  Later,  in  this 
chapter  I  will  make  specific  reference  to  Mr. 
Yeats's  relationship  to  Mr.  Shaw's  work,  but  here 
I  may  say  that,  in  spite  of  his  sincere  regard  and 
admiration  for  Mr.  Shaw,  Mr.  Yeats  seems  to  be 
totally  incapable  of  comprehending  his  work.  He 
is  able  to  communicate  with  ghosts,  but  he  cannot 
communicate  with  Mr.  Shaw.  He  can  understand 
astrologers  and  necromancers  and  spiritualists  and 
thimble-riggers  of  all  sorts  and  conditions,  but  he 
cannot  understand  Mr.  Shaw.  He  told  me  on  one 
occasion  of  an  experience  he  had  with  a  medium, 
a  young  girl  who  differed  from  all  other  mediums 
known  to  him  in  being  a  member  of  the  upper  class. 
The  spirits,  seemingly,  prefer  to  communicate  their 
messages  through  the  lower  orders.  This  girl's 
family  were  ashamed  of  her  cataleptic  powers  and 
tried  to  conceal  them  from  their  neghbours,  but 
they  were  persuaded  to  permit  Mr.  Yeats  to  see  her 
in  a  trance.  "While  she  was  in  the  trance,"  he 
said  to  me,  "her  fingers  closed  on  her  palm.    Then 

[268] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

they  opened  again,  and  I  saw  a  small  green  pebble 
in  the  centre  of  her  palm!"     That  was  all!     Im- 
mortal souls  had  disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  uni- 
verse and  thrown  a  young  girl  of  the  upper  class 
into  a   trance  in  order  that  they  might  place  a 
small  green  pebble  in  the  centre  of  her  palm! 
And   Mr.    Yeats    saw    something   wonderful    and 
significant  in  that  performance,  but  is  unable  to 
see  anything  significant  in  the  work  of  Mr.  Shaw. 
That  to  me  is  a  thing  so  incomprehensible  that  I 
have  abandoned  all  attempts  to  understand  it.     But 
all  of  this  is  digression  and  anticipation.     Soon 
after  I  had  received  the  letter  in  which  he  praised 
my  "wayward  realism,"  I  heard  from  Mr.  Yeats 
again.     He  invited  me  to  call  on  him  on  the  follow- 
ing   Sunday    evening   at   his    rooms    in    Woburn 
Buildings,  behind  the  Euston  Road,  in  London;  and 
thither,  in  a  state  of  some  excitement,  I  repaired. 
I  had  no  trouble  in  finding  the  house,  for  Mr. 
Yeats,  who,  in  some  ways,  is  much  more  precise 
and  clear-minded  than  people  imagine  or  his  hand- 
writing indicates,  had  given  me  very  explicit  di- 
rections how  to  get  to  it,  and  had  even  drawn  a 
rough  sketch  of  the  neighbourhood  so  that  I  should 
not  fail  to  find  him.     Woburn  Buildings  consists 

[269] 


S^ME   IMPRESSIONS   ©F   MY   ELDERS 

of  a  number  of  tall  houses  in  a  narrow  passage  off 
Southampton  Row,  and  running  parallel  with  the 
Euston  Road.  It  is  a  dingy,  dark  place,  with  an 
air  of  furtive  poverty  about  it,  and  on  Sunday 
nights  it  is  depressing  enough  to  fill  a  man's  mind 
with  plots  for  drab  dramas.  I  have  heard  that 
H.  G.  Wells  thought  of  the  plot  of  that  clever,  devil- 
ish story  of  his,  "The  Island  of  Dr.  Moreau,"  in  the 
Tottenham  Court  Road  on  a  Bank  Holiday  when 
he  was  in  a  mood  of  discontent.  I  believe  that 
the  whole  of  the  "drab  drama"  was  first  conceived 
on  Mr.  Yeats's  doorstep! 

Shops  form  the  ground  floor  of  these  houses, 
little,  huckstering  shops  that  just  contrive  to  sup- 
port their  proprietors,  and  Mr.  Yeats's  rooms  were 
on  the  third  and  fourth  floors  of  a  house  which  had 
a  cobbler's  shop  on  the  ground  floor.  The  cob- 
bler was  a  pleasant,  bearded  man,  wearing  spec- 
tacles who  had  some  share  in  the  management  of 
his  affairs;  for  when  one,  unable  to  obtain  admis- 
sion to  the  poet's  rooms,  required  information 
about  him,  the  cobbler  invariably  supplied  it.  He 
could  tell  whether  Mr.  Yeats  had  gone  to  Ire- 
land or  was  merely  taking  the  air,  and  when  he 
was  likely  to  return,  and  he  would  offer,  with  great 

[270] 


S«ME   IMPRESSIONS   «F   MY   ELBERS 

courtesy,  to  take  a  message  from  you  to  be  faith- 
fully delivered  to  him  on  his  arrival. 

Mr.  Yeats  has  poor  and  failing  sight,  and  in  the 
dusk  of  the  Sunday  evening  on  which  I  called  on 
him,  he  could  barely  discern  me.  He  stood  in 
the  hall,  holding  the  door,  looking  very  tall  and 
dark,  and  said  in  that  peculiar,  tired  and  plaintive 
voice  of  his,  "Who  is  it?"  and  I  answered  "St.  John 
Ervine."  There  is  always  something  conspira- 
torial about  the  manner  in  which  he  admits  you 
to  his  rooms.  You  felt  that  you  want  to  give  the 
countersign. 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  said,  without  any  interest,  and 
bade  me  enter. 

In  one  of  his  books,  he  writes  that  life  seems  to 
him  to  be  a  preparation  for  something  that  never 
happens;  and  the  quality  of  his  voice  suggests  that 
thwarted  desire  which  is  expressed  in  so  much  of 
his  work.  He  is,  in  poetry,  what  Mr.  Galsworthy 
is,  in  fiction:  he  surrenders  to  life.  I  do  not 
know  of  any  one  who  can  speak  verse  so  beautifully 
and  yet  so  depressingly  as  he  can.  The  very 
great  beauty  that  is  in  all  his  work  does  not  stir 
you:  it  saddens  you.  There  is  no  sunrise  in  his 
writing:  there  is  only  sunset.     In  his  lyrics,  there 

[271] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

is  the  cadence  of  fatigue  and  of  the  lethargy  that 
comes  partly  from  disappointment,  partly  from 
loneliness,  partly  from  doubt,  and  partly  from  in- 
ertia. "Innisfree,"  the  beauty  of  which  has  not 
been  diminished  by  familiarity,  does  not  sound 
glad:  it  sounds  tired.  The  poet's  wish  to  return 
to  the  lake  island  is  not  due  to  any  pleasurable 
emotion,  but  to  weariness  and  exhaustion:  he 
dreams  of  the  island,  not  as  a  place  in  which  to 
work  and  to  achieve,  but  in  which  to  retire  from 
work  and  achievement  that  has  not  brought  with  it 
the  gratification  for  which  he  hoped;  and  the  final 
impression  left  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  that 
the  poet  is  too  tired  and  disappointed  to  do  more 
than  wish  that  he  might  go  to  Innisfree.  One  reads 
the  beautiful  poem  in  the  sure  and  certain  belief 
that  Mr.  Yeats  will  not  "arise  and  go  now,  and  go 
to  Innisfree,"  but  that  he  will  remain  where 
he  is.  There  is  no  impulse  or  movement  in  the 
poem:  there  is  only  a  passive  wish  and  a  plaintive 
resignation. 

And  all  that  inertia  and  negation  and  inactive 
desire  is  sounded  in  his  voice.  It  is  very  palpable 
in  his  manner. 

He  warned  me  not  to  make  a  noise  as  I  ascended 

[272] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  uncarpeted  stairs:  the  people  on  the  second 
floor  might  be  disturbed.  They  were  working- 
people,  I  understood,  and  either  there  was  a  fret- 
ful baby  asleep  or  the  people  retired  early  because 
they  had  to  rise  early,  and  he  did  not  wish  to 
break  their  rest.  Yeats  can  be  very  harsh  and 
inconsiderate  with  his  associates,  but  his  bearing 
to  poor  men  and  women,  in  my  experience,  is  very 
courteous  and  very  considerate.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  gracious  to  a  duchess — he  probably 
was  sometimes  less  gracious  to  a  duchess — than  he 
was  to  the  middle-aged  woman  who  cooked  his 
meals  and  kept  his  rooms  clean.  I  have  seen 
distinguished  men  being  gracious  to  poor,  unlet- 
tered men,  but  most  of  them  had  an  air  of  .  .  . 
not  exactly  condescension  in  doing  so,  but  of  alter- 
ing their  attitude  slightly,  of  relaxing  and  unbend- 
ing, of  modifying  their  style,  as  it  were,  and  mak- 
ing it  simpler.  I  did  not  observe  any  effort  at 
condescension  in  his  manner  towards  that  plain 
and  simple  woman.  He  spoke  to  her  in  the  same 
way  that  he  would  speak  to  "A.  E."  or  to  Lady 
Gregory.  I  suppose  that  Queen  Victoria  was  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  to  whom  Yeats  ever  spoke 
in  a  condescending  fashion. 

[273] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 


II 


He  is  a  tall  man,  with  dark  hanging  hair  that  is 
now  turning  grey,  and  he  has  a  queer  way  of  focus- 
sing when  he  looks  at  you.  I  do  not  know  what 
is  the  defect  of  sight  from  which  he  suffers,  but 
it  makes  his  way  of  regarding  you  somewhat  dis- 
turbing. He  has  a  poetic  appearance,  entirely 
physical,  and  owing  nothing  to  any  eccentricity  of 
dress;  for,  apart  from  his  neck-tie,  there  is  nothing 
odd  about  his  clothes.  It  is  not  easy  to  talk  to 
him  in  a  familiar  fashion,  and  I  imagine  that  he 
has  difficulty  in  talking  easily  on  common  topics. 
I  soon  discovered  that  he  is  not  comfortable  with 
individuals:  he  needs  an  audience  to  which  he  can 
discourse  in  a  pontifical  manner.  If  he  is  com- 
pelled to  remain  in  the  company  of  one  person  for 
any  length  of  time,  he  begins  to  pretend  that  the 
individual  is  a  crowd  listening  to  him.  His  talk  is 
seldom  about  common-place  things:  it  is  either  in  a 
high  and  brilliant  style  or  else  it  is  full  of  rem- 
iniscences of  dead  friends.  I  do  not  believe  that 
any  one  in  this  world  has  ever  spoken  familiarly 
to  him  or  that  any  one  has  ever  slapped  him  on  the 
back  and  said  "Helloa,  old  chap!"     His  relatives 

[274] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

and  near  friends  call  him  "Willie"  but  it  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  that  they  do  so  with  an  effort, 
that  they  feel  that  they  ought  to  call  him  "Mr. 
Yeats!"  I  doubt  very  much  whether  he  takes  any 
intimate  interest  in  any  human  being.  It  may  be, 
of  course,  that  he  took  less  interest  in  me  than  he 
took  in  any  one  else  for  I  am  not  a  very  interesting 
person ;  but  I  always  felt  that  when  I  left  his  pres- 
ence, it  was  immaterial  to  him  whether  he  ever  saw 
me  again  or  not.  I  felt  that,  on  my  hundredth 
meeting  with  him,  I  should  be  no  nearer  intimacy 
with  him  than  I  was  on  my  first  meeting.  My  van- 
ity has  since  been  soothed  by  the  knowledge  that 
he  has  given  a  similar  impression  regarding  them- 
selves to  other  people  who  know  him  better  than  I 
do.  I  have  seen  him  come  suddenly  into  the  pres- 
ence of  a  man  whom  he  had  known  for  many  years, 
and  greet  him  awkwardly  as  if  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  He  never  offers  his  hand  to  a  friend : 
he  will  often  stand  looking  at  one  without  speaking, 
and  then  bow  and  pass  on,  with  perhaps  a  fumbled 
"Good  evening!"  but  never  with  a  "How  are  you?" 
or  "I'm  glad  to  see  you!" 

It  is,  I  suppose,  the  result  of  some  natural  clum- 
siness of  manner.     He  has  trained  himself  to  an 

[275] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

elegance  of  demeanour,  an  elaborate  courteous- 
ness,  which  is  very  pleasing  to  a  stranger,  but  he 
has  spent  so  much  time  in  achieving  this  elegance 
that  he  has  forgotten  or  never  learned  how  to  greet 
a  friend. 

He  was  expecting  other  people  to  come  to  his 
rooms  that  Sunday  evening.  ...  I  remember  he 
mentioned  that  Madame  Maud  Gonne  McBride  was 
expected  to  arrive  in  London  from  Paris  on  her 
way  to  Ireland,  and  might  call  on  her  way  to 
Euston  Station  .  .  .  but  no  one  else  came.  He 
talked  to  me  about  my  play  and  told  me  that  he 
liked  it  very  much,  but  that  Lady  Gregory  did  not 
greatly  care  for  it.  "She  is  a  realist  herself,"  he 
said,  "and  all  realists  hate  each  other.  Synge 
would  have  disliked  your  play,  and  Robinson  does 
not  like  it,  but  I  do!"  (Lennox  Robinson,  himself 
a  dramatist,  was  then  manager  of  the  Abbey  The- 
atre.) He  asked  me  if  I  had  written  any  other 
plays,  and  I  told  him  that  I  was  half-way  through 
a  four-act  play,  called  "Mixed  Marriage,"  and  I 
described  the  theme  of  it  to  him.  He  urged  me 
to  complete  this  play  and  bring  the  MS.  to  his 
rooms  and  read  it  to  him.  "The  difficulty  about 
'The  Magnanimous  Lover,'   '  he  said,  "is  that  it 

[276] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

may  provoke  some  disturbance  among  the  au- 
dience, and  as  our  patent  expires  shortly  we  do 
not  wish  to  give  the  authorities  any  ground  for 
refusing  to  renew  it.  They  were  very  angry  over 
our  production  of  Bernard  Shaw's  'Blanco  Posnet' 
after  the  Censor  refused  to  license  it  in  England. 
We'll  leave  the  production  of  'The  Magnanimous 
Lover'  until  the  patent  has  been  renewed.  If  your 
new  play  were  ready,  we  could  do  it  first  and 
create  a  public  for  you!   ..." 

Mr.  Yeats  is  one  of  the  best  advertising  agents 
in  the  world,  and  I  did  not  doubt  his  ability  to 
"create  a  public"  for  me,  although  I  thought  that 
Lady  Gregory  would  probably  be  more  skilful 
even  that  he  could  be.  When  one  remembers  that 
she  has  established  a  considerable  reputation  as  a 
dramatist  on  two  continents  entirely  on  the  strength 
of  half-a-dozen  one-act  plays,  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt  that  she  is  at  least  as  skilful  as  he  in  draw- 
ing attention  to  herself.  A  great  amount  of  their 
advertising  energy  has,  of  course,  been  expended 
on  the  Abbey  Theatre  and  the  Irish  Literary  Ren- 
aissance, and  a  great  many  Irish  writers,  myself 
included,  have  derived  advantage,  personal  and 
pecuniary,  from  their  activities.     It  would  have 

[277] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

been  better  for  us,  perhaps,  if  Mr.  Yeats  had  em- 
ployed his  critical  ability  more  freely  than  his 
eulogy  on  our  work.  There  is  an  immense 
amount  of  creative  power  in  Ireland,  but  it  is  raw, 
untutored,  tumid  stuff,  and  because  the  critical  fac- 
ulty in  Ireland  is  almost  negligible,  this  creative 
power  is  wasted  in  violent  explosive  plays  and 
books  or  violent,  explosive  beliefs. 

I  have  always  believed  in  the  interdependence 
of  all  men  and  minds.  It  seems  to  me  that  an  ill- 
conceived,  foolish  political  scheme  must  in  some 
manner  react  on  every  other  department  of  man's 
life,  and  that  the  labourer  who  is  doing  his  job 
badly  in  a  remote  village  is  in  some  measure  ad- 
versely affecting  the  welfare  of  his  countrymen 
miles  away.  Violent,  crude  plays  are  inevitable 
in  a  land  of  violent,  crude  beliefs;  and  it  is,  I 
think,  not  without  significance  that  some  of  the  most 
violent,  crude  plays  in  the  Abbey  repertory  were 
written  by  dramatists  who  professed  the  violent, 
crude  beliefs  of  Sinn  Fein.  When  one  thinks  of 
the  generosity  and  courage  and  nobility  of  many 
of  the  Sinn  Feiners,  it  is  hard  not  to  lose  faith  in 
human  perfectibility  when  one  considers  how  fool- 
ish are  the  political  schemes  they  devise.     If  men 

[278] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

so  good  and  exalted  as  these  men  are  can  produce 
schemes  so  stupid  and  sometimes  so  cruel,  how  can 
we  hope  for  any  progress  in  the  world  when  we 
remember  how  many  bad  men  there  are?  And 
have  we  not  seen  how  men  of  lofty  ideals  can 
tumble  into  cruelty  and  become  brutal  ruffians  in 
the  name  of  patriotism? 

Ill 

But  there  is  an  explanation  of  all  this  crudity 
and  violence  in  Ireland.  For  all  sorts  of  reasons, 
political,  social,  historical  and  religious,  the  criti- 
cal faculty  has  rarely  been  employed  and  certainly 
has  not  been  developed.  Either  you  are  for  a 
thing  or  you  are  against  it.  Doubt  is  treated  as 
if  it  were  antagonism.  Reluctance  to  commit  one- 
self to  any  scheme  however  fantastic  or  ill-con- 
sidered it  may  be,  is  treated  as  treason  to  the  na- 
tional spirit.  A  man  who  asserts  his  belief  in  the 
establishment  of  an  Irish  Republic,  by  force,  if 
necessary,  is  an  Irishman,  even  though  he  be  a 
"dago,"  and  any  one  who  is  doubtful  of  the  feas- 
ibility of  this  proposal  is  denounced  as  a  West 
Briton,  an  anglicised  Irishman,  even,  on  occasions, 

[279] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

as  "not  Irish  at  all,"  although  his  forbears  have 
lived  in  Ireland  for  generations.  The  state  of  af- 
fairs in  Ireland  is  not  unlike  the  state  of  affairs  in 
Russia,  where  literary  criticism,  as  a  Russian 
writer  has  stated,  has  always  tended  to  be  the 
handmaid  of  political  faction.  "Any  writer  of 
sufficient  talent"  says  a  reviewer  in  the  Times 
Literary  Supplement,  "who  adopted  a  liberal  at- 
titude was  certain  of  the  appreciation  of  the  in,' 
telligentsid s  acknowledged  critical  leaders,  and 
hence  of  a  wide  and  enthusiastic  audience.  But 
writers  whose  instinct  for  the  truth  led  them  to 
doubt  the  sufficiency  of  doctrinaire  discontent  with 
the  established  order  were  debarred  from  the  aids 
to  literary  advancement,  and  had  to  struggle 
against  the  grain  of  popular,  and  even  academic, 
valuation." 

It  is  even  worse  than  that  in  Ireland,  for  there, 
generally  speaking,  there  is  hardly  any  criticism 
at  all,  although  there  is  plenty  of  abuse.  In  great 
measure  this  lack  of  criticism  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  all  the  mind  of  Ireland  has  been  obsessed  by 
the  demand  for,  or  the  opposition  to,  self-govern- 
ment. There  has  not  been  any  reality  in  Irish 
electoral  contests  for  a  great  many  years.     Until 

[280] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

the  growth  of  Sinn  Fein,  there  seldom  were  any 
contests  at  all.  Candidates  for  parliament  were 
nearly  always  returned  unopposed.  Contests,  if 
there  were  any,  were  between  one  Nationalist  and 
another,  concerned  with  matters  of  detail  and  not 
with  matters  of  principle,  or,  at  the  most,  between 
a  Nationalist  and  a  Unionist,  concerned  with  the 
advocacy  of,  or  opposition  to,  Home  Rule.  Sinn 
Fein  has,  indeed,  brought  a  contest  to  every  con- 
stituency, but  even  here  the  contest  is  concerned 
with  the  old  obsession,  self-government  in  one  form 
or  self-government  in  another:  Home  Rule  within 
the  British  Commonwealth  or  a  Republic  outside 
it.  If  one  considers  that  this  obsession  was  nearly 
always  expressed  in  bitter  language,  it  is  not  dif- 
ficult to  understand  how  deplorable  its  effects  have 
been  on  the  general  life  of  the  Irish  people.  It 
has  temporarily  incapacitated  them  from  judging 
any  proposition  in  a  sane  and  dispassionate  fash- 
ion; and  so  the  critical  faculty  in  Ireland  has 
languished  until  at  times  one  fears  that  it  has  de- 
cayed. 

Mr.  Yeats  is  a  great  creative  artist:  he  is  also 
a  great  critic.  Had  he  chosen  to  do  so,  he  could 
have  had  an  enormous  influence  on  the  minds  of 

[281] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

his  countrymen.  His  pride  in  his  craft,  his  de- 
sire for  perfect  work,  his  contempt  for  subterfuges 
and  makeshifts  and  ill-considered  schemes,  his 
knowledge  and  his  skill,  all  these  would  have  af- 
fected the  faith  and  achievements  of  his  country- 
men, imperceptibly,  perhaps,  but  very  surely.  It 
is  unfortunate  that  he  was  not  appointed  to  the 
Chair  of  Literature  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  I 
know  that  he  wished  to  receive  this  appointment 
and  was  disappointed  that  he  did  not  receive  it. 
The  mind  that  might  have  disciplined  and  devel- 
oped the  imagination  of  young  Irishmen  was  re- 
jected by  Trinity  College,  and  it  has  turned  to  tire- 
some preoccupation  with  disembodied  beings,  to 
table-turning  and  ouija-boards  and  the  childish 
investigation  of  what  is  called  spiritual  phenom- 
ena, but  is,  in  fact,  mere  conjurer's  stuff. 

IV 

I  saw  Mr.  Yeats  many  times  after  that  first  visit. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  always  at  home  to  his 
friends  on  Monday  evening,  and  he  invited  me  to 
dine  with  him  on  the  Monday  immediately  follow- 
ing the  Sunday  on  which  I  first  met  him.  No  one 
came  on  that  evening.     He  talked  about  acting 

[282] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

and  the  theatre,  and  I  said  something  that  pleased 
him,  and  he  complimented  me  in  his  grave,  courte- 
ous manner.  "That  was  well  said,"  he  exclaimed, 
and  I  flushed  with  pleasure.  The  praise  of  one 
distinguished  man  is  more  than  the  applause  of 
a  multitude  of  common  men.  His  talk  about  the 
theatre,  though  interesting,  was  often  remote  from 
reality.  He  was  then  interested  in  the  more 
esoteric  forms  of  drama,  and  was  eager  to  put 
masks  on  the  actors'  faces.  He  wished  to  elimin- 
ate the  personality  of  the  player  from  the  play, 
and  had  borrowed  some  foolish  notions  from  Mr. 
Gordon  Craig  about  lighting  and  scenery  and  de- 
humanised actors.  He  had  a  model  of  the  Abbey 
Theatre  in  his  rooms  and  was  fond  of  experiment- 
ing with  it.  There  was  some  inconsistency  in  his 
talk  about  acting:  at  one  moment  he  was  anxious 
for  anonymous,  masked  players,  "freed"  from 
personality,  and  at  the  next  moment,  he  was  de- 
manding that  players  should  act  with  their  entire 
bodies,  not  merely  with  their  voices  and  faces. 
Hazlitt,  advocates  anonymity  on  the  stage,  and 
when  one  considers  how  excessive  is  the  regard 
paid  to-day  to  the  actor  in  comparison  with  that 
paid  to  the  play,  one  is  tempted  to  support  Haz- 

[283] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

litt's  demand;  but  I  have  never  understood  why 
one  should  decline  to  exploit  a  personality  that  is 
rare. 

There  is  a  school  of  thinkers  which  holds  that 
the  best  theatre  is  that  one  in  which  a  player  may 
be  the  hero  of  the  piece  to-night  and  the  "voice 
off"  to-morrow  night.  This  is  a  ridiculous  theory. 
Even  if  it  were  practicable,  which  it  is  not,  it  would 
be  a  disgraceful  waste  of  material.  The  manager 
who  consented  to  a  proposal  that  Madame  Sarah 
Bernhardt  should  play  the  part  of  the  servant  with 
one  line  to  say  would  be  an  ass  and  a  wastrel. 
It  is,  perhaps,  unfair  to  treat  a  man's  "table-talk" 
as  if  it  were  a  serious  proposal,  and  I  once  got 
into  trouble  with  Mr.  Gordon  Craig  for  doing  this; 
but  so  much  of  Mr.  Yeats's  talk  and  writing  is  re- 
lated to  this  matter  of  disembodiment  and  passion- 
less action,  that  it  is  difficult  not  to  treat  it  seri- 
ously. For  my  part,  I  have  always  been  unable 
to  understand  how  it  is  possible  for  a  human 
being  to  behave  as  if  he  were  not  a  human  being. 

Most  of  the  talking  was  done  by  Mr.  Yeats,  and 
he  talked  extraordinarily  well.  He  is  one  of  the 
best  talkers  I  have  ever  listened  to,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  his  conversation  tends  to  become  a 

[284] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS   OF    MY   ELDERS 

monologue.  But  if  you  cannot  talk  well  your- 
self, you  are  wise  to  listen  to  a  man  who  can.  He 
spoke  at  length  about  the  men  who  had  been  his 
friends  when  he  was  a  young  man:  of  Oscar  Wilde 
and  Aubrey  Beardsley  and  Arthur  Symons  and 
Lionel  Johnson  and  Ernest  Dowson;  of  Henley  and 
Whistler  and  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  and  of  a  host  of 
others.  He  had  a  puzzled,  bewildered  admira- 
tion for  "that  strange  man  of  genius,  Bernard 
Shaw,"  but  I  never  felt  that  he  understood  Mr. 
Shaw  or  was  happy  with  Mr.  Shaw's  mind.  He 
could  not  make  head  or  tail  of  "John  Bull's  Other 
Island"  when  he  read  it  in  MS.  Mr.  Shaw,  in  a 
debate  with  Mr.  Belloc,  which  I  had  heard  a  night 
or  two  before  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Yeats,  had 
said  "I  am  a  servant,"  and  this  statement  pleased 
Mr.  Yeats  very  much.  He  was  moved  by  the  hu- 
mility of  it.  Mr.  Shaw,  however,  hardly  entered 
into  Mr.  Yeats's  early  life,  and  most  of  the  talk  that 
evening  was  about  Beardsley  and  Wilde  and  Lionel 
Johnson  and  Ernest  Dowson  and  the  members  of 
the  Rhymers'  Club.  "Most  of  them,"  he  said, 
"died  of  drink  or  went  out  of  their  minds!" 

It  was  late  when  I  prepared  to  leave  him.     He 
had  been  saying  that  a  man  should  always  associate 

[285] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

with  his  equals  and  superiors  and  never  with 
his  inferiors,  when  I  recollected  that  the  hour 
was  late  and  that  I  might  miss  the  last  tram  from 
the  Thames  Embankment  and  so  have  to  walk 
several  miles.  I  was  tired,  too,  and  a  little  de- 
pressed, for  he  seemed  to  be  a  lonely  man  and  an 
uneasy  man.  He  had  survived  all  his  friends, 
but  had  not  succeeded  in  making  any  intimacy  with 
their  successors.  I  sometimes  feel  about  him  that 
he  is  a  lost  man  wandering  around  looking  for 
his  period.  When  I  had  announced  that  I  was 
going  home,  he  astonished  me  by  saying  that  he 
would  walk  part  of  the  way  with  me.  He  had 
not  had  any  exercise  all  day  and  felt  that  he  needed 
some  air  and  movement.  (He  hates  open  windows 
and  always  keeps  his  tightly  closed.)  We  walked 
to  the  Embankment  together,  saying  little,  for 
silence  had  fallen  on  him,  and  walked  along  it 
for  a  short  while.  I  said  some  banal  thing  about 
Waterloo  Bridge,  but  he  did  not  make  any  answer; 
and  I  did  not  speak  again,  but  contented  myself 
with  observing  the  difference  between  his  walk 
when  he  is  moving  slowly  and  his  walk  when  he 
is  moving  quickly.  He  is  very  dignified  in  his 
movements  when  he  walks  slowly:  he  holds  his 

[286] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

head  erect  and  carries  his  hands  tightly  clenched 
behind  his  back;  but  when  he  begins  to  move 
quickly,  the  dignity  disappears  and  his  walk  be- 
comes a  tumbling  shuffle.  That,  I  suppose,  is  be- 
cause of  his  poor  sight. 

My  tram  came  along,  and  I  said  "Good-night" 
to  him,  and  he  answered  "Good-night"  in  a  vague 
fashion.     I  think  he  had  completely  forgotten  me. 


He  had  told  me  that  he  was  going  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  to  Manchester  to  lecture  to  some  society 
there,  and  I  was  sufficiently  interested  in  his  opin- 
ions to  get  a  copy  of  the  "Manchester  Guardian" 
containing  a  report  of  what  he  had  said.  I  was 
amused  to  find  that  his  lecture  was  a  repetition 
of  all  that  he  had  said  to  me  on  the  Monday  before 
the  day  on  which  he  lectured.  He  had  "tried  it 
on  the  dog,"  and  I  was  the  dog.  All  his  speeches 
are  carefully  rehearsed  before  they  are  publicly 
delivered.  He  told  me  once  that  Oscar  Wilde 
rehearsed  his  conversation  in  the  morning  and 
then,  being  word-perfect,  went  forth  in  the  evening 
to  speak  it.     I  imagine  that  he  does  that,  too,  on 

[287] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

occasions.  It  is  a  laudable  thing  to  do  in  many 
respects,  although  it  tends  to  make  talk  somewhat 
formal  and  liable  to  be  scattered  by  an  interrup- 
tion. When  Mr.  Yeats  rehearses  a  speech  before 
making  it  in  public,  he  is  paying  a  great  tribute 
to  his  audience  by  declining  to  offer  them  scamped 
or  hastily-contrived  opinions.  Those  who  listen 
to  him  may  be  deceived  into  believing  that  he  is 
speaking  spontaneously,  but  they  may  be  certain 
that  what  he  says  has  been  carefully  considered, 
that  he  is  speaking  of  things  over  which  he  has 
pondered  and  not  just  "saying  the  first  thing  that 
comes  into  his  head." 

Most  men  of  letters  do  something  of  this  sort. 
I  have  listened  to  Mr.  Moore  saying  things  which 
I  subsequently  read  in  the  preface  to  the  revised 
version  of  one  of  his  novels;  and  I  remember 
meeting  "A.  E."  in  Nassau  Street,  Dublin,  one 
evening  and  being  told  a  great  deal  about  co-opera- 
tion which  I  read  in  his  paper,  "The  Irish  Home- 
stead" on  the  following  morning. 

I  saw  Mr.  Yeats  many  times  after  that.  I  com- 
pleted the  MS.  of  "Mixed  Marriage"  and,  much 
embarrassed,  read  it  to  him  in  his  rooms.  I  read 
it  very  badly,  too,  and  I  am  sure  I  bored  him  a 

[288] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

great  deal;  but  he  was  kind  and  patient  and  lie 
made  some  useful  suggestions  to  me  which  I  did 
not  accept.  I  had  too  much  conceit,  as  all  young 
writers  have,  to  be  guided  by  a  better  man  than 
myself.  I  know  now  that  I  should  have  done 
well  to  take  his  advice.  He  warned  me  against 
topical  things  and  against  politics  and  urged  me 
to  flee  journalism  as  I  would  flee  the  devil;  and  he 
advised  me  to  read  Balzac.  He  was  always  ad- 
vising me  to  read  Balzac,  but  I  never  did.  .  .  . 

VI 

My  memories  of  those  days  when  I  first  knew 
him  begin  to  be  disconnected,  and  I  find  myself 
putting  down  things  which  happened  after  other 
things  which  I  have  still  to  relate;  but  I  have 
never  found  a  consecutive  narrative  very  interest- 
ing, which,  perhaps,  is  why  I  cannot  read  Pepys' 
Diary  or  Evelyn's  Diary.  I  like  to  take  things 
out  of  their  turn,  to  go  forward  to  one  thing  and 
then  back  to  an  earlier  thing.  I  can  only  connect 
one  incident  or  memory  with  another  by  taking 
them  out  of  their  order  and  doing  violence  to  the 
natural  sequence  of  things.     Life  is  not  so  inter- 

[289] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

esting  when  all  the  factors  between  1  and  100  are 
in  sequence  as  it  is  when  26  and  60  are  taken  out 
of  their  place  and  put  into  coherence,  temporary 
or  permanent,  with  each  other. 

He  said  to  me  one  evening  that  a  man  does  not 
make  firm  friendships  after  the  age  of  twenty-five. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  that  statement, 
but  I  doubt  whether  it  is  generally  true.  It  is 
true  of  him,  for  his  mind  turns  back  continually 
to  the  men  who  were  his  contemporaries  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  but  it  was  not  true  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
who  shed  his  friends  as  he  grew  in  stature  of  mind. 
And  perhaps  what  Dr.  Johnson  said  to  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  is  more  generally  true  than  what  Mr. 
Yeats  said  to  me.  "If  a  man  does  not  make  new 
acquaintances  as  he  advances  through  life,  he  will 
soon  find  himself  alone.  A  man,  Sir,  should  keep 
his  friendship  in  constant  repair."  I  do  not  think 
that  anything  is  so  remarkable  about  Mr.  Yeats  as 
his  aloofness  from  the  life  of  these  times.  He  has 
very  little  knowledge  of  contemporary  writing.  I 
doubt  whether  he  has  read  much  or  even  anything 
by  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  or  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  or  Mr. 
John  Galsworthy  or  Mr.  Joseph  Conrad.  He  said 
to  me  one  night  that  after  thirty  a  man  ought  to 

[290] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY  ELDERS 

read  only  a  few  books  and  read  them  continually. 
Some  one  had  said  this  to  him — I  have  forgotten 
who  said  it — and  he  passed  on  the  advice  to  me; 
but  he  added,  after  a  while,  that  "perhaps  the  age 
of  thirty  is  too  young,"  and  suggested  that  the  age 
should  be  raised  to  forty.  It  seemed  very  wrong 
advice  to  me. 

An  active  mind  will  surely  keep  itself  ac- 
quainted with  new  books  and  familiar  with  old 
books.  I  have  heard  many  men,  particularly 
schoolmasters  and  classical  scholars,  say  with 
pride  that  they  never  read  modern  books.  Such 
people  boast  that  when  a  new  book  is  published, 
they  read  an  old  one.  They  are,  in  my  experience, 
dull  people,  sluggardly  in  mind,  and  pompous  and 
set  in  manner.  In  many  cases,  particularly  if 
they  are  schoolmasters,  they  neither  read  new 
books  nor  old  ones.  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  friends, 
however,  appear  to  have  been  familiar  with  all 
the  current  literature  of  their  time:  history,  fiction, 
poetry,  drama,  philosophy  and  theology;  as  well 
as  with  the  ancient  writings.  They  would  not  have 
boasted  of  their  ignorance  of  the  work  of  their 
contemporaries.  In  Mr.  Yeats's  case,  however, 
this  unfamiliarity  with  the  work  of  men  writing 

[291] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

to-day  is  explainable  when  one  remembers  that 
he  cannot  read  easily  because  of  his  sight.  When 
I  first  knew  him,  a  friend  came  several  times  a 
week  to  read  to  him  out  of  a  copy  of  the  Kelmscott 
Press  edition  to  William  Morris's  "Earthly  Para- 
dise." 

He  had,  like  most  young  men  of  his  time,  been 
much  influenced  by  William  Morris,  the  only  man 
for  whom  I  ever  heard  him  profess  anything  like 
affection,  but  I  remember  hearing  him  say  once 
that  he  no  longer  got  pleasure  from  reading  or 
listening  to  Morris's  poetry. 

VII 

One  night,  I  was  at  his  rooms  when  Mr.  G.  M. 
Trevelyan,  the  historian  and  biographer  of  Gari- 
baldi and  John  Bright,  was  present  with  his  wife, 
a  daughter  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  Mr.  Yeats 
talked  much  and  well,  and  I  remember  his  story 
of  a  dream  he  had  had.  He  often  told  stories  of 
his  dreams,  but  some  of  them  smelt  of  the  mid- 
night oil.  A  friend  of  his,  he  said,  was  contem- 
plating submission  to  the  Catholic  Church.  He 
had  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  this,  but  she  went 

[292] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

away  to  another  country  in  a  state  of  irresolution. 
One  night,  he  dreamt  that  he  saw  her  entering 
a  room  full  of  beautiful  people.  She  walked 
around  the  room,  looking  at  these  beautiful  people 
who  smiled  and  smiled  and  smiled,  but  said  noth- 
ing. "And  suddenly,  in  my  dream,"  he  said, 
"I  realized  that  they  were  all  dead!"  "I  woke 
up,"  he  proceeded,  "and  I  said  to  myself,  'She  has 
joined  the  Catholic  Church,'  and  she  had."  Mr. 
Trevelyan  thought  that  the  description  of  the  Catho- 
lic Church  as  a  room  full  of  beautiful  people,  all 
smiling  and  all  dead,  was  the  most  apt  he  had  ever 
heard.  He  chuckled  with  contented  anti-clerical- 
ism. Another  night,  when  I  was  in  his  rooms,  Miss 
Ellen  Terry's  son,  Mr.  Gordon  Craig,  came  to  see 
him;  and  a  model  of  the  Abbey  Theatre  was 
brought  down  from  his  bedroom  to  the  candle-lit 
sitting  room,  where  Mr.  Craig  experimented  with 
lighting  effects.  Mr.  Craig  is  a  man  of  genius,  but 
he  is  a  very  difficult  and  childish  person,  whose 
view  of  the  theatre  is  nearly  as  damnable  as  that 
of  the  most  vain  of  the  lost  tribe  of  actor-managers 
or  their  successors,  the  shop-keeper  syndicates. 
Scenery  and  lighting  effects  were  of  greater  con- 
sequence to  Mr.  Craig  than  the  play  itself!     His 

[293] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

designs  for  scenery  were  very  beautiful,  indeed, 
but  they  were  suitable  only  to  romantic  and 
poetical  plays. 

I  remember  that  when  he  had  manipulated  Mr. 
Yeats's  model  theatre  to  his  liking,  he  stood  back 
from  the  scene,  and  said,  "What  a  good  thing  it 
would  be  if  we  were  to  take  all  the  seats  out  of 
the  theatre  so  that  the  audience  could  move  about 
and  see  my  shadows!"  Mr.  Yeats  dryly  replied 
that  this  was  hardly  a  practical  proposal.  I  was 
irritated  by  Mr.  Craig's  remark  which  was  in  keep- 
ing with  his  general  theory  of  the  theatre.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  would,  were  he  less  difficult 
to  work  with,  be  as  great  a  nuisance  and  danger  to 
drama  as  any  actor-manager  in  London.  Sir 
Henry  Irving  and  Sir  Herbert  Tree,  turning  the 
attention  of  the  audience  away  from  the  play  to  the 
player  and  the  scenery,  were  not  any  worse  than 
Mr.  Craig,  anxious  to  turn  the  attention  of  the  audi- 
ence to  his  shadows.  I  was  glad  when  this  remark- 
able man  was  carried  off  by  Mr.  Albert  Rutherston 
and  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys  to  exhibit  himself  somewhere 
else. 

Mr.  Yeats  was  bitten  with  Mr.  Craig's  theories 
about  lighting  and  scenery,  and  a  large  sum  of 

[294] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

money  for  so  poor  a  theatre  as  the  Abbey,  was 
spent  on  some  of  his  "screens"  for  use  in  plays 
like  "Deirdre."  They  were  never  used  for  any- 
thing else.  When  I  went  to  Dublin  to  manage  the 
Abbey,  I  was  very  anxious  that  we  should  employ 
a  competent  scene-builder  to  make  some  good 
"sets"  for  us,  but  Mr.  Yeats  said  that  scenery  was 
of  no  consequence:  the  dirty  hovel  which  we  always 
employed  to  represent  an  Irish  cottage  or  farm 
house  would  do  well  enough.  I  thought  there  was 
some  oddness  in  this  opinion  when  I  remembered 
that  the  theatre  had  been  almost  bankrupted  in 
order  to  purchase  "screens"  for  occasional  per- 
formances of  his  own  one-act  plays.  He  would 
spend  hours  in  rehearsing  the  lighting  of  a  scene 
for  one  of  them:  this  "lime"  was  too  strong  and 
that  "lime"  was  too  weak  or  there  was  too  much 
colour  or  there  was  not  enough  or  the  mingling 
of  colours  was  not  sufficiently  delicate.  One  day, 
when  he  had  worn  out  the  patience  of  every  one 
in  the  theatre,  with  his  fussing  over  the  lighting, 
he  suddenly  called  out  to  the  stage-manager, 
"That's  it!  That's  it!  You've  got  it  right  now!" 
"Ah,  sure  the  damned  thing's  on  fire,"  the  stage- 
manager  answered. 

[295] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

VIII 

I  have  written  already  that  he  is  not  happy  with 
an  individual:  he  must  have  an  audience;  and  I 
remember  now  something  that  he  said  to  me  which 
supports  my  belief.  We  had  been  talking  about 
Synge  and  his  habit  of  listening  at  key-holes  and 
cracks  in  the  floor  in  order  to  hear  scraps  of  con- 
versation that  he  might  put  into  his  plays.  I  said 
I  had  been  told  that  Synge,  though  excessively 
shy  and  silent  in  company,  was  a  very  companion- 
able person  with  an  individual.  He  was  a  good 
comrade  on  a  country  road,  talking  easily  and 
naturally,  and  had  the  gift  of  friendliness  with 
plain  and  simple  people.  Labourers  and  country- 
men would  talk  to  him  as  easily  as  they  talked  to 
one  another,  and  would  confide  in  him.  I  won- 
dered whether  there  were  as  many  entertaining 
tales  to  be  heard  from  working-people  in  England 
as  were  to  be  heard  from  working-people  in  Ire- 
land. Mr.  Yeats  thought  that  perhaps  there  were. 
He  told  me  that  the  woman  who  cooked  his  meals 
and  cleaned  his  rooms  had  begun  to  tell  some 
story  of  a  love  affair  to  him,  but  that  he  had  been 
too  diffident  to  encourage  her  to  go  on  with  it. 

[296] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

He  thought  that  if  he  had  talked  to  her  more  than 
he  had,  she  would  have  told  him  many  stories  of 
her  youth  in  the  country;  but  all  his  talk  to  her  had 
been  of  food  and  household  things.  He  is  not 
a  man  in  whom  poor  men  and  women  confide. 
His  civility  to  them  is  magnificent,  but  it  overawes 
them  and  makes  them  as  uneasy  in  one  way  as 
it  pleases  them  in  another.  He  is  an  excellent 
entertainer  in  a  crowded  room,  but  he  is  a  poor 
companion  on  a  road.  He  can  talk  well  to  a 
company  of  educated  men  and  women,  but  he  is 
tongue-tied  in  the  presence  of  those  who  have  little 
learning.  When  I  survey  my  acquaintance  with 
Yeats,  I  find  strangely  diverse  thoughts  rising  in 
my  mind.  I  am  drawn  to  him  and  repelled  by 
him.  He  stimulates  me  and  depresses  me.  I  am 
moved  by  the  beauty  of  his  work  and  distracted 
by  its  vagueness.  I  find  in  his  writing  and  in 
his  speech,  great  spiritual  loveliness  but  curiously 
little  humanity,  and  I  have  often  wondered  why 
it  is  that  while  Irishmen,  even  such  as  I  am,  are 
deeply  moved  by  his  little  play,  "Kathleen  ni 
Houlihan,"  men  of  other  countries — not  only 
Englishmen — are  left  unmoved  by  it,  unable,  with- 
out a  note  in  the  program,  to  understand  it.     I 

[297] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

have  seen  this  play  performed  very  many  times. 
I  never  missed  seeing  it,  when  it  was  done  at  the 
Abbey  during  the  time  that  I  was  manager  there. 
It  moved  me  as  much  when  I  last  saw  it  as  it  did 
when  I  first  saw  it;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  if  I 
live  to  be  an  old  man,  it  will  move  me  as  much  in 
my  old  age  as  it  has  moved  me  in  my  youth.  But 
it  does  not  move  men  of  other  races.  That  is  a 
singular  thing.  It  denotes,  I  suppose,  that  while 
there  is  much  that  is  national  in  Mr.  Yeats's  work, 
there  is  less  that  is  universal. 

One  rises  from  his  work,  as  one  comes  from  his 
company,  with  a  feeling  of  chilled  respect  that 
may  settle  into  disappointment.  It  is  as  if  one 
had  been  taken  into  a  richly-decorated  drawing- 
room  when  one  had  hoped  to  be  taken  into  a  green 
field.  I  have  read  Blake's  poems  and  then  I  have 
read  his  and  sought  to  see  the  resemblance  that 
I  am  told  is  between  them,  but  have  not  always 
found  it.  Blake  wrote  about  things  that  he  felt, 
but  Mr.  Yeats  writes  about  things  that  he  thinks; 
and  thought  changes  and  perishes,  but  feeling  is 
permanent  and  unchangeable;  thought  separates 
and  divides  men,  but  feeling  brings  them  together; 
and  it  may  be  that  Mr.  Yeats's  aloofness  from 

[298] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

men  is  due  to  the  fact  that  he  thinks  too  much  and 
feels  too  little. 

IX 

I  think  of  him  as  a  very  lonely,  isolated,  aloof 
man.  He  is,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  the  only  Eng- 
lish-speaking poet  who  did  not  write  a  poem  about 
the  War,  a  fact  which  is  at  once  significant  of  the 
restraint  he  imposes  upon  himself  and  of  his  iso- 
lation from  the  common  life  of  his  time.  I  have 
never  met  any  one  who  seems  so  unaware  of 
temporary  affairs  as  Mr.  Yeats,  and  this  unaware- 
ness  is  due,  not  to  affectation,  but  to  sheer 
lack  of  interest.  He  probably  would  not  have 
known  of  the  War  at  all  had  not  the  Germans 
dropped  a  bomb  near  his  lodgings  off  the  Euston 
Road.  When  Macaulay's  New  Zealander  comes 
to  examine  the  ruins  of  London,  he  will  probably 
see  Mr.  Yeats,  disembodied  and  unaware  that  he 
is  disembodied  or  that  London  is  in  ruins,  sit- 
ting on  a  slab  with  a  planchette.  He  is  younger 
than  Mr.  Shaw  by  ten  years,  but  might  be  ten 
years  older.  His  verse  and  his  speech  and  his 
manner  are  all  elderly,  and  his  conversation  is 

[299] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

composed  chiefly  of  reminiscences  of  men  who 
have  been  dead  for  many  years,  so  that  one  imag- 
ines he  has  not  had  a  friend  since  1890.  There 
is  absolutely  no  suggestion  of  youth  in  his  writ- 
ings. In  the  poem  entitled,  "To  a  Child  Dancing 
in  the  Wind,"  he  says: 

I  could  have  warned  you,  but  you  are  young, 
So  we  speak  a  different  tongue 

and  again: 

But  I  am  old  and  you  are  young, 
And  I  speak  a  barbarous  tongue. 

I  do  not  know  what  age  Mr.  Yeats  was  when 
he  wrote  those  lines,  but  they  are  included  in 
a  collection  of  poems,  dated  "1912-1914,"  and 
at  most  he  could  not  have  been  fifty,  for  he  was 
born  in  Dublin  in  1865. 

The  sense  of  age  seems  to  have  oppressed  his 
mind  for  many  years,  perhaps  for  the  whole  of 
his  creative  life.  He  feels  that  he  has  outlived 
his  generation  and  is  lost  in  a  period  of  time 
peculiarly   alien   to   him. 

When  I  was  young, 
I  had  not  given  a  penny  for  a  song 
Did  not  the  poet  sing  it  with  such  airs 

[300] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

That  one  believed  he  had  a  sword  upstairs: 
Yet  would  be  now,  could  I  but  have  my  wish, 
Colder  and  dumber  and  deafer  than  a  fish. 

This  coldness  closing  on  his  heart  and  congealing 
all  his  generous  emotions,  causes  him,  at  the  end 
of  a  graceful  book,  "Reveries  Over  Childhood  and 
Youth"  (in  itself,  significant  of  the  age-obsession 
which  possesses  his  mind)  to  declare  that  "all  life, 
weighed  in  the  scales  of  my  own  life,  seems  to  me 
a  preparation  for  something  that  never  happens," 
and  leaves  his  readers  wondering  why  a  man 
who  began  his  life  by  singing  songs  with  such 
airs  "that  one  believed  he  had  a  sword  upstairs" 
should  stumble  into  dismal  prose  towards  the  end 
of  it,  pronouncing  life  to  be  a  cheerless  deceit. 

His  effect  on  young  men  is  peculiar.  His  bril- 
liant conversation  is  very  attractive  to  them,  but 
his  insensibility  to  the  presence  of  human  beings 
repels  them.  "A.  E."  once  told  me  that  Mr.  Ar- 
thur Griffith,  the  founder  of  the  Sinn  Fein  move- 
ment, drew  young  people  to  him  by  the  strength 
of  his  hatred,  but  finally  repelled  them  by  his 
complete  lack  of  charity  and  love.  A  nature 
compounded  principally  or  exclusively  of  hatred 
must  be  destructive.     No  man  can  construct  any- 

[301] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

thing  unless  love  and  charity  predominate  in  his 
heart.  Mr.  Griffith,  throughout  his  career,  has 
never  been  notable  for  his  power  to  make  things. 
He  could  not  even  make  his  own  movement  grow, 
for  Sinn  Fein  became  a  popular  and  appealing 
force  only  after  Padraic  Pearce  and  Thomas  Mac- 
donagh  and  James  Connolly  had  put  a  fire  into 
the  machinery  of  it  on  Easter  Monday,  1916. 
There  is  something  terribly  ironical  in  the  fact 
that  James  Connolly,  to  whom  Mr.  Griffith  of- 
fered every  possible  opposition  in  his  lifetime, 
should  by  his  death  have  helped  to  put  Mr.  Grif- 
fith in  a  position  of  authority  to  which  his  own  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  qualities  could  never  have 
raised  him.  Mr.  Yeats  has  something  of  the  un- 
humanity  of  Mr.  Griffith.  His  talk  is  brilliant,  in- 
deed, but  it  is  not  comradely  talk.  It  never  lapses 
from  high  quality  to  the  easy  familiarities  which 
humanize  all  relationships.  He  is  more  fastidious 
about  his  speech  than  he  is  about  his  friends.  It 
would  shock  him  more  to  use  a  bad  word  than  to 
make  a  bad  friend,  because  he  is  more  aware  of 
bad  words  than  of  bad  men;  and  he  would  be 
quicker  to  forgive  a  crime  than  to  forgive  a  vulgar 
phrase.     I  have  never  heard  him  use  a  common  ex- 

[302] 


SOME   IMPRESSIONS   OF   MY   ELDERS 

pression.  He  once  repeated  an  angry  speech  of 
William  Morris  to  me  with  an  air  almost  apologetic 
for  using  profane  language,  not  because  it  was  pro- 
fane but  because  it  was  inelegant.  He  never  says 
"Damn!"  or  "Blast!"  when  he  is  angry.  ...  He 
is  one  of  the  loneliest  men  in  the  world,  for  he 
cannot  express  himself  except  in  a  crowd.  Dr. 
Stockman  said  that  the  strongest  man  in  the  world 
is  the  man  who  stands  absolutely  alone — a  feat 
which  is  surely  impossible — and  this  specious  state- 
ment has  supported  many  ineffective  egoists  in 
their  belief  that  neurosis  is  strength  and  misbehav- 
iour a  sign  of  individuality.  But  the  penalty  of 
isolation  is  that  the  isolated  cannot  dispense  with 
an  amenable  crowd.  The  hermit  must  have  a  suc- 
cession of  respectful  pilgrims  to  his  cave,  each  one 
murmuring,  "There  is  but  one  God  and  Thou  art 
His  Prophet!"  until  at  last  the  hermit  begins  to  be- 
lieve that  he  is  God  and  God  is  his  prophet.  Her- 
mits have  followers,  or,  perhaps  one  ought  to  say, 
curious  visitors,  but  they  have  no  friends.  Why 
should  they  have  friends?  They  have  not  got  the 
social  sense  nor  can  they  take  part  in  the  common 
labours  of  mankind.  They  live  in  caves  and  de- 
sert places  because  they  are  not  fit  to  live  in  houses 

[303] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF   MY   ELDERS 

and  places  that  are  inhabited.  But  even  the  her- 
mits, wrapped  in  self-sufficiency,  realize  that  no 
man  is  effective  without  his  fellows,  and  so,  though 
they  cannot  make  friends,  they  make  disciples. 
This  is  a  truth  which  all  the  great  lonely  men  from 
Adam  to  Robinson  Crusoe  have  discovered,  that  a 
man  by  himself  is  ineffective  and  without  interest. 
Life  for  Adam  remained  uneventful  until  the  ar- 
rival of  Eve:  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez  was 
livelier  after  Man  Friday  came  to  keep  Crusoe 
company.  For  fellowship  is  life,  as  Morris  said, 
and  lack  of  fellowship  is  death. 

There  is  no  poet,  not  even  Keats  or  Shelley,  who 
has  so  much  of  pure  poetry  in  his  work  as  Mr. 
Yeats  has  in  his,  and  perhaps  that  is  enough;  but 
there  is  no  other  poet,  not  even  Mr.  Kipling,  who 
has  so  little  understanding  of  human  kind.  It  is 
an  odd  commentary  on  his  relationship  to  his 
countrymen  that  while  he  was  writing  the  bitter 
poem,  entitled  "September,  1913,"  with  the  deso- 
lating refrain: 

Romantic  Ireland's  dead  and  gone — 
It's  with  O'Leary  in  the  grave. 

Thomas  Macdonagh  and  Padraic  Pearse  and  James 

[304] 


SOME    IMPRESSIONS    OF    MY   ELDERS 

Connolly  were  preparing  themselves  for  a  romantic 
death. 

John  Davidson,  in  a  book  called  "Sentences  and 
Paragraphs,"  writes  of  Keats  that,  "beginning  and 
ending  his  intemperate  period  with  the  too  ample 
verge  and  room,  the  trailing  fringe  and  sample-like 
embroidery  of  'Endymion,'  he  was  soon  writing 
the  most  perfect  odes  in  the  language."  Mr.  Yeats, 
in  spite  of  some  reluctant  instructions  into  enthu- 
siastic movements,  escaped  "the  intemperate 
period";  but  he  did  so  at  the  cost  of  his  youth  and 
ardour.  Like  the  Magi  in  his  poem  of  that  name, 
he,  "being  by  Calvary's  turbulence  unsatisfied," 
seeks  "to  find  once  more"  "the  uncontrollable  mys- 
tery on  the  bestial  floor";  but  it  eludes  him,  and 
will  always  elude  him,  because  he  thinks  of  its  hab- 
itation as  "a  bestial  floor."  It  can  only  be  found 
by  a  poet  who,  whatever  happens,  still  believes  that 
the  earth  is  a  place  where  God  may  yet  walk  in 
safety.  Mr.  Yeats  is  the  greatest  poet  that  Ireland 
has  produced,  but  he  has  meant  very  little  to  the 
people  of  Ireland,  for  he  has  forgotten  the  ancient 
purpose  of  the  bards,  to  urge  men  to  a  higher  des- 
tiny by  reminding  them  of  their  high  origin,  and 
has  lived,  aloof  and  disdainful,  as  far  from  human 
kind  as  he  can  conveniently  get. 

[305] 


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